Revenge by Reality or I'm a Lovable Fault
by ivybluesummers
Summary: Josei vs. Shohoku. Practice games, practice courting. Blushing, scandals, flirting, aloof dirty jokes. Something is amiss, Kogure mused; if only he can remember it right. Lighthearted MitKo fluff - tautology intended.
1. Prologue

_Standard disclaimers apply. Loosely based on episode 94 and beyond; tense confusion, syntax violation and painstaking details (which may border to boring) also abound as there are two timelines here, and I plan to add another. You'll see a couple or so of **"```````"** which are supposed to be spaces to emphasize the succession of dialogues, but ff-net seems to be obstinately outdated with standard spacing lay-out. Lighthearted fluff, definitely; reviews/flames welcome, as always._

**Revenge by Reality (or I'm a Lovable Fault)**

* * *

Day eight, twelve blocks from the gym. Tonight's summertime is definitely breezier than the usual, and Kogure Kiminobu could not even be bothered writing five pages worth of excursion and curses and definitely groping, certainly more blights than what the foul-mouthed Shohoku starters could actually pronounce (and more groping). Not in there (anyway). Not that he would trade it for anything, he snickers to himself, his right hand shakes as his enthusiasm gets the better of his journal, writing away cadences short of periods and commas, feeling the texture of the air. He'd be content smelling the wax of the gymnasium floor, he could definitely taste his own sweat as he musters his right arm, projecting, alight; the wondrous end of his basketball career–he's going to the Inter High, definitely.

_One, two! One, two!_ In the meantime, he could get the bellowing, haunting chant away from audible range. It was grating him for one hundred and eighty eight hours now, and he won't make the afternoon practice tomorrow if he keeps fixing his stare up the sky, shivering (not from the cold) and just staring, actually, with no time and object in mind, definitely with no petulance, just the kind of stare that'd accuse you of–

"Daydreaming?"

Not at all, he denied; the other grinned. He was beginning to get wide-eyed, distantly looking at the grinning figure. Ryota's dreamy snorting of Ayako was already beyond Mitsui's annoyance so he has stealthily replaced the unmoving, pale freshman (of disheveled hair, littered drool with a humming snore) to his seat.

"Much... better..." said the scarred senior, putting himself to sleep, "Get some nap yourself, Kimi-kun."

Why did he have to affix that to his name anyway? Kogure furrowed his brows as he opened his right eye, his sight roundabout his sleeping teammates, probably fatigued and numb. They still have a week or so to polish themselves for next week's Inter High, and even Rukawa was naïve enough to trust that sitting one centimeter from the couch would make him the number one high school basketball player in Japan. The sun has likewise crept defiantly; without his glasses, the Shizuoka prefecture looked awkward and definitely too verdant. Would Josei High be a waddle of greens and searing sunlight, he asked himself, pursing his lip ever so slightly (nope, no drool)–he yawned next, gushing his air out (nope, no bad breath). No windswept hair either, he smiled, not that the train speeded like a windowless bus with humid summer airstreams to gorge on, and the inviting futon is no less part of the 38,000 yen he saved up for this trip. Akagi's adamant, spontaneous training wasn't surprising, and in fact he could still hear it drumming in his ears.

There was definitely a lot of snoring. The blue-haired was already buzzing against his right ear, and without even glancing Kogure was sure he could equal Rukawa's drool and scruffy hair; he was also beginning to snore more loudly, which could only mean that the trajectory of his head, as soon as gravity hits it, will be his neckline. He thought fast: _Day One. Summer. Damp snoring on his neck–_

which would probably look submissive (and un-cool) on his end, and so Kogure Kiminobu tried to shift Mitsui's weight with dainty, gliding fingers, tiptoeing silence with vague uneasiness when the ex-MVP suddenly shot him a look.

One probing and gullied eye looked at his own brown, prodding eye; it was the kind of stare that's neither jabbing nor nudging, but it never the less protruded like a thought, like he was... fully... conscious? The aircon's whiz suddenly sneaked into his body as their hands and cheeks and fingers steadied with a long fall of minutes.

"Wha–what– you... you got me there, Mitsui," he tried to laugh as the other tilted his head, narrowing his eyes as if they were the correct ripostes.

_One, two! One, two!_ Kogure can hear Akagi in his mind's eye as his arms retreat from Shohoku's three-point ace. "You were gonna fall on my shoulder so I, uh, I thought of having you lean on the pane instead," he whispered.

"I see."

Was he grinning?

"Okay. I'll take a nap now," he immediately replied, closing his eyes, creasing his brows, concentrating.

His journal flips page after page even without wind. His bedroom becomes a dark four-cornered seam as he lies down after putting the lights off, ironically trying to muster enough strength to summon sleep. Summer is unforgiving with all that temperature and hormones (and definitely groping), and rambling, and as he is tumbled sideway, he decides to be unsure whether to just stare until his eyes close to a rest or down a glass of milk (they get you sleepy), or write away again with all the incessant flipping of pages ringing in his ears. He breathes hard finally, summoning shuteye like a mantra.

_One, two! One two! _

_One, two! One two!, _said Akagi, and he couldn't be more bewildered why this howl was haunting him right now, or even the trepidation with which all this entailed, and it may be owed to his excitement, since he's going to be in the starter line for the practice match this week (probably), or since everyone was asleep and he had nothing else to do but purse his lips (nope, still no drool), or wait five minutes–and opening your right eye, just to make sure he's not rambling in his head, and yes, Mitsui was still staring at him.

This could be a dream, the brown-eyed mused, since an eyeballing Shohoku three-pointer is like him being able to smile without his fake teeth. He opened his mouth, as if to make a conversation instead.

"Excited about the practice match?" Kogure finally asked.

"You can say that," he replied, suddenly yawning.

"Me too," he smiles genuinely. "I mean it's my last month in the game, of course I gotta make the best out of it, yeah? Josei is one of Japan's top eight, so they must be of national level..." he looks down, continuing, "...and though I don't have the same skills you guys have, I could do well supporting you..."

"You underrate yourself as always,"

The vice-captain will then continue in his monologue with the firm belief that this phantasm will most probably end within fifty five minutes; the sunbeams would peek against them and he will be awed by the light, blathering stories away, and Akagi and Ryota will snore while Mitsui will shift his weight, and Kogure will take his glasses off since he could perfectly see the nodding head of Mitsui (which affirms it being a dream in the first place), clutching his bag. Here goes a summer of hard work and experience, he'll tell him.

It could be past an hour this dream, but then again he couldn't remember half an hour since quarter to nine in the morning that he already fell asleep. And by the time he woke up, his head was already nestled against the scarred youngster's shoulder.

He stares at him long enough for Mitsui to throw a quizzical look himself.

"What?"

Kogure laughs apprehensively– ` ` ` ` ` ` ` ` ` "–that won't work anymore, you know,"

"Yeah, I know," he scratches his head, "Just that I've always wondered if I really drooled on your shirt that time."

Mitsui shifts his weight, reaching for a pillow, tucking it in his back. "Of course you did."

"–but I never drool," protests the brown-eyed, "I always check."

"And you don't have to tell me," he whispers in his ears, lying down, flexing sideways as he follows the other's gesture, locking his arm with his. "Go to sleep." _Day One. Four or more counties from Kanagawa. Third hour, clammy armpits and thighs–_

and more than this sweating and nervous laughing were assailing questions of reality (which Kogure deemed as normalcy)–two dudes nestling each other's necks weren't in the least thought-provoking, right? By this time, they've already drifted towards the student lounge of the Josei High School, and contrary to the road's lush bamboos and oaks, the classrooms and buildings were toothily imposing (despite being nicely tiled), and as the Shohoku team proceeded for the basketball gym, Kogure was sure he drooled on Mitsui's shoulder; he probably pursed the wrong part of his lip, but it was all a dream, remember (he would tell himself)?

"Oi."

He stood still. "Jet lag?" teases the blue-haired.

Kogure smiled. "I thought jet lags were for planes?"

"You're sweating like a pig Kogure-sempai," complemented Ryota.

"Well look who's chatty," said a suspicious Mitsui, eyeing the sophomore closely. "Earlier you were dead to the world or something. Ayako-chan, Ayako-chan–" The brown-haired did not say a word, and rightfully so, since he was so close apologizing for the drool in the other's shirt.

"Ha...hahaha…" he fell about, futilely at that. He walked beside him, touching that part of his shirt.

"Toothless! Oi Akagi! Wait up!"

Alone at last. "Is that... is this–?"

"Our secret," the other nonchalantly says, unrelenting, not even batting an eyelid. Kogure, on the other hand, was beginning to hear Akagi's _One, Two! One, Two!_ at the back of his mind, and he thought of running; since Akagi was really making them run. With a fiery determination, Mitsui Hisashi spouted against the asphalt and jogged like he was about to make an alley-oop.

"You've come a long way, Akagi. Mr. Anzai did a good job," waved the bald coach as the team assembles. "He made you a good team."

Kogure watched as the other captain ran for them. "This is captain Mikoshiba. Akagi of Shohoku."

"Nice to meet you,"

"You had a good game with Kainan?"

"So-so."

The other chuckled. "That means Kainan isn't as good as last year."

The replies, of course, were a tick in the forehead and a raised eyebrow, and Mitsui walked up to clench a fist. "I like this welcome greeting now more than ever," he fizzed, confident.

"Oi Mitsui–"

Kogure looked at Ryota next, "Heh. If Hanamichi's here we'd be in a joint camp instead."

Laughing nervously as he clutched the scarred man's arm, "Let's enjoy a friendly camp together, no? Ha... hah... hahaha..." It was luck among misfortunes indeed, he thought. He would just have to control a tenth of Sakuragi's propensity to blow nuclear, which equates to Mitsui's hotheadedness and Ryota's impatience, or even Rukawa's silent insinuations; he would just have to keep them confident enough for next week's Inter High. Mitsui stepped further, conspicuously narrowing his eyes; Kogure would've understood the shrug's purpose, but the tightening grip against his hold was making it all the more confusing.

He gave him a curious stare, holding his gritting arm, but it seemed to be downplayed so subtly no one could even bother noticing. He neither looked back nor replied, as expected.

"Okay team–assemble!"

He loosened his grip.

"Here's the gist. Curfew at ten, breakfast at seven, lunch at twelve, dinner at six. We'll practice from nine to eleven, one to two. Three matches this week, starting at three. You better have mattresses or you'll sleep stone cold."

"Your hand is cold," mumbles the other beside him, fitting his sturdy frame with Kogure as if to thaw the brown-eyed.

"I've been sleeping stone cold for almost a week so it should take some time," he mutters, "before I get used to this,"

"Hey," Mitsui grins, "You weren't the only one who missed the curfew."

"That's true–"

"Besides, my parents're gonna kill me tomorrow. Unlike you–" he delves his scarred chin to his neck, laughing ever so faintly against the groaning crickets, and the moon shone up the vertical to a crisp lightness.

"I bet they will," Ryota sneered, "Ha! Sleep stone cold!"

"You..." he tapers his sight, throwing the ball to him. "Throw!"

He ran, earring glistening in his right ear as the lay-up rebounded.

"Tsk tsk. Dwarf!" he jeered, which earned glances from the other team whom they were supposed to practice with tomorrow.

"Oh they are so gonna lose–" remarked Josei's vice-captain.

"You..." The whistle blew, signaling respite. The freshmen sans Rukawa decided to stroll around the campus and scratch their itching curiosities that Josei High School supposedly housed tropical beauties, as Yasuda often mentioned that girls in Kanagawa were paler than everyone else (this Kogure remembered a week ago), and this was also the time when the brown-haired ascertained of his disinterest in anything resembling dodgy stares and confusing gesticulations, anything which resembles buckshot, blue stare.

"Girls are more popular here," Ishii once thought aloud, more of an inviting, introspective question to the bench warmers than a declaration, with all its reserved tone with which he used to say it. Kogure, being an encompassing deputy captain that he is, participated in the conversion. Yasuda would even blush as soon as the first syllables of 'girls' would be uttered, and Kogure wondered if they could be so undiscerning–

"–because they got tighter blouses of course!" he smiled, seemingly triumphant. Most boys would of course flush, and most freshmen would also remark that the senior was already experienced and women-savvy, but (truth be told) he was just unsympathetic. He also remembered how tight Mitsui's shirt was–

"–what?" he grimaced. This was getting more and more confusing. He drooled on his tight shirt, then gripped his hands, he definitely made it a point to memorize how his knees would bend, how the bandage on his knee would fold graciously against sweat–

"What?" Mitsui tapped him by shoulder, exorcising him. "Everyone's gonna go for a swim by the lake. Wanna?"

"What lake?" ` ` ` ` ` ` ` ` ` "You're suddenly dried eyed–"

"Mitsui-san, you coming?" beamed the unrelentingly enthusiastic bench warmers, geared up as girls-huntsmen.

"I'll follow later," Kogure replied to him, walking for the benches.

He remembers it quite daftly now; he was unsure if his allegedly wanton contribution actually offended, but he's sure more than ever that the two large green tea fields which seemed to overhang Mt. Fuji, or his tight shirt and red bandage, were more interesting than a woman's curves. He sits quietly, holding his glass of milk while trying to cool off his reddening cheeks as if he suddenly has fever (amorous fever he'd like to call it), the milk on the glass starting to simmer and he knows he is ordained to purse his lips, yawn and check his hair–and return to his darkened room and Mitsui's tight embrace (boxers).

But something is amiss. He dates back to the study camp, he dates back to Rukawa's one on one with Mitsui; he even dates back to their practice almost a week and a half ago; the midnight is beginning to creep in the house like a slithering sliver of ice despite the warmth that summers were ought to give, and he has approximately four hours before breakfast, and another eight hours before practice, and he can actually feel languid over-rambling and excessively analyzing all these carousing and mistakes and fulfilled wishful thinking. Call it revenge by reality, they say–

He wakes up at the bustling sound of spatula against the frying pan, and the maple syrup lingers on his nose long enough for him to realize it's almost eight in the morning (and the maple syrup is five millimeters across his nose). His mom was already finished with the pancakes, shoving it to him– "Your friend already left. Seemed like a punk, Ko-chan,"

He's not a baby anymore, he thinks.

"Huh?" he straightens his shirt, yawning (he forgot to purse his lip, earning a drool).

"Oh, he's definitely one of those red-mark army, like that raven-haired friend of yours," she looks quite menopausal to him right now, and his father wasn't making it any better, snickering like a bully.

"Ah, forget it. He's going to Peers by winter, so give him some slack," his dad finally says, although for the senior, the defense would've been more valuable if he wasn't reading the newspaper and looked straight at them. His mother has always been adamant about this Imperial school racket.

A 30-second silence ensued. "He got good grades this year,"

"Who?" ` ` ` ` ` ` ` ` ` "Mitsui," he sips his coffee.

"Huh?" she smiles innocently, "...oh. Ha...haha… hahaha! Of course he did honey," she says, and Kogure's certain this falling-about-failingly in him was her gene. "I'm sorry if I judged him, Ko-chan,"

He strolls along the street for school, taking long, droopy strides, his ears beginning to engorge with crimson, as if his blood boiled up tenaciously like his team just won the tournament. Truly, it wasn't his disheveled hair he managed to neglect this morning, or the wrong glasses he took by the drawer. The sun isn't as lifeless, in fact it was scalding his nape and his sweat was nowhere to be felt against his skin; like he was a second short from getting a snowflake within his chest, his flapping ears, his cold hand which is like a corpse's. This is what he has thought of last midnight, and his mind couldn't keep up, nor could he now anyway–he clutches his messenger bag, and he can see Akagi in the distance.

"Good sleep last night?"

"Haa..." he laughs, "Haha... no I didn't actually,"

"Well..." the bass voice says, "Mitsui got your back anyway."

"Huh?– " ` ` ` ` ` ` ` ` ` "He's probably at the gym right now. Blighting that monkey,"

They start to walk.

"The real thing is happening today," Akagi informs him as they enter the gym. It brimmed with a sense of optimism, the rest of the team practicing earlier than the call time, and by then coach Anzai was doing his ho-ho cheer as he himself smiles, awe-inspired; he can hear Ayako applauding Yasuda for his two points, he can see the Shohoku ace shooting, alone, he can hear Ryota recommending good faint moves, that screeching foray of sneakers that's long ago music to him, he noticed Hanamichi's new shoes (he likes one himself, he thought), his loose defense as Mitsui feigns to go in–what joy, he thinks.

The redhead notices them. "Hahahaha! You're late, Gori, Megane,"

"Good! You're doing fine!" ` ` ` ` ` ` ` ` ` "I wonder..." the redhead thinks, caressing his chin with his fingers.

"Huh?" ` ` ` ` ` ` ` ` ` "Mitchy! Aren't you jealous he came in with Gori?"

A tick in the forehead. "Don't call me that! Hey, wha–"

The captain's fist is about to hurl in the air, "...bu-but–but they're a couple, no?" The gym seemed to be overcast with gray sky and an impending summer storm as the optimism it had a minute ago turned into a noiseless crowd. Ah, yes, it took him all that to finally remember now.

* * *

_tbc._


	2. Day One, Two

He finally came to his senses as the gym housed no more than his meager, unimportant presence. It was four in the afternoon, he knew nothing of the lake, and had all himself to brood malicious thoughts about those guys blushing and talking about women, yet again–whereby, as his footsteps echoed, as his heart thumped, he drew a big breath before proceeding outside. It was, of course, alienating; everyone seemed to have magically disappeared (and by this it includes Rukawa, despite him practicing still), but wasn't he informed of a lake somewhere? He definitely wasn't a compass, although he knew about Mt. Fuji, which stands at 3,776 meters, and he knew that Kakita river's also here, which borders side by side with the mountain (this he can dismiss as the lake he mentioned), and he also knew that Tetsuo's bike, Mitsui once told him, came from a mail order from this prefecture. They make you pass an exam, but don't actually answer questions of expediency. As far as swim-able lakes are concerned, he could be better off drooling instead. But didn't they pass by Shuzenji when they went here? The Izu districts catered to bath houses and temples, and it's plausible for him to go there by bus, but won't it require at least a thousand more yen just entering a decimated, has-been spa? How could they suddenly get this rich?

He set out to follow them anyway.

As soon as the day broke with a swerve of steams he could see in the distance, his outward confidence got the better of him. It was an hour past hour, the clouds have thickened to orange puffs, he has already spent 500 yen and yet no one was still in sight. It could've helped if he was conscious enough to absorb all that geographic information from the police a while back, but here he is, standing in front of a decimated, has-been spa house (he assumed they were never gonna get to a decent one at all), intimidating him with its old age. This must be it, he cautiously told himself, the nearest actual lake is about two miles away, and they couldn't have went that far since... since they're supposed to have a practice match tomorrow, right? He smiled, hangdog, feeling helpless as he entered (why not?), realizing that it's summer and hot springs are supposed to be... hot.

_Eighth hour. Not wearing glasses, not wearing anything in fact (except the towel)–_

is this what his father referred to as... horniness? As he blushed, he remembered how his mother would be hesitant/irresponsible towards sexual orientation (did he even know what it meant?) as she believed he was too cute to know such foreign words (kami, being kawaii is, like, being a stuff toy, he imagined). On the other hand, his father bordered between lack of support and blatancy, the latter arousing from the fact he knew nothing of them in the first place. Deduce this: arousal means horniness, and therefore he is constituted to be aroused by nakedness. So what is supposed to happen now? He thought hard; he flapped his arms at the surface as the steam hid two reddened cheeks, trying to swim, trying to retire–

"Aha!" he explained, suddenly standing. "I'll just do my readings later!" That was the usual solution anyway, and so he sat down again, his body shivering,

and definitely just enjoying his time than sulking, reveling at the houses and ports and more bath houses, and more than this laid-back ambling (tautology intended) in Shuzenji-machi after 80 minutes of soaking his body to coldness was a wistful disposition; look at the skies, it's almost blue now, and look at those soba noodles they're famous of! Look at that old, scary temple! Get yourself some dinner, a nice field trip, and by the third day you'll be as broke as a monk. He went in a portable ramen house, and the old man was leasing his daughter (most probably) as they wait for a customer.

"Yata! Good graces sent you to taste our soba!"

He ogled them, trying to be heartening even with a sweat on his forehead. He looked at the right, and there she was: such poised girl, definitely a tropical Shizuokan.

The girl before him was finely contoured, he mused; her eyes pierced like the void but were otherwise cool, unflustered, locks falling gracefully as her nimble fingers cautiously held the kettle, pouring the noodle broth. The olfaction wasn't necessarily distracting, the clear, springing sounds were like flowing water against bamboo; her voice faded like a song, asking him if he would like their specialty green tea. Yes, thank you, he heard himself say, not blinking at all. The former–who was by then dredging several mixes, carefully tucking her black tresses behind her ears, has already blushed thrice. Kogure didn't care,

...was this what his father rightfully (and blatantly) called... horniness? The stark enthusing of that sinuous, sea-dried flesh, ever so supple, that stark enthusing of disrobing her with four eyes (glasses included) as if to admire the delicateness you lacked? It begged the question, though it was also a kind of normalcy as well, and he can finally share un-academic stories by the time he gets back at Josei–he can't let this pass, he told himself,

"What's your name, if you don't mind me asking?"

"Huh?" she timidly asked– ` ` ` ` ` ` ` ` ` ` "I'm Kogure Kiminobu."

She smiled. "Nasumine..." she stuttered, "Mitsui. Yoroshiku," and finally bowed.

"Mitsui? Oh," he tried to smile, picking up half of his jaw on the floor, "I think I'll have sake."

A long fall of silence. Just when you think you're in control, he thought, just when the firmament graced him warmth and felicitations, just when he thought he was on a roll, an un-cul de sac–here this Mitsui goes. It's neither unnerving nor scary at all, but it was obviously painstaking (and utterly scrupulous, tautology intended) to at least get by without remembering how dodgy and seemingly underhanded everything has been with him (he'd rather stick to pronouns).

When forty five minutes have passed, when the wind has settled down among the amassed, roasted sencha leaves at the end of the street; by this time he already downed a bottle of rice wine to prove he's man enough like his father (he reckoned this two years ago) zigzagging his way though the house. It was also slightly warmer to boot; it was already eight in the evening but his body felt it was only an hour short of lunch time that Mitsui (the ramen girl) was slowly fanning his supposedly soon-to-be suitor. The imposing changeover of this was hazy for him, but it ended up like that anyway. Her soon-to-be father-in-law seemed to agree so, constantly patting him on the back, and, as if a gesture of debt he would like the brown-eyed to pay with a lifetime (as he wasn't even aware of this), was also giving sake 'on the house.' It was embarrassing enough to listen indolently to them while trying to ramble to as to why he's become this excessively hormonal and sensitive,

"Guys from Kanagawa are much brighter... and paler," she cut him short of his thoughts as she continued, "...don't you think so, father?"

"Yes, yes," he said as he brings him grilled aji, "The most ambitious careers around here are tea-tending or fishing. They're hardly worth nowadays, half of our generation are all tea-tenders and fishermen."

"Is that... is that so? Haha... hahaha!"–

which was the last thing he remembered when he awoke from the searing sunlight on his back, the ramen booth empty and semi-closed, and he can hear bustling, purring sounds at the rear of his left ear, some tapping perhaps, some dodgy glaring (he can almost feel it), the Nasumine's have probably answered the summons of slumber and Akagi probably had less than three hours from all the shouting and thumping, wherefore, his team probably had less than two hours of sleep looking for him. A rush of blood to the head, and he shot his back up, ready to run. A note was stuck on his arm:

_Father agreed to run a tab for you. _

_Hoping you enjoyed your stay. _

_I definitely would like to see you again _

–_Mitsui_

_P.S. Please don't mind me saying I love you, too._

He was looking at it for about five minutes now, though his timeframe could be said to be unreliable at this first humbling horniness (which also felt ironic for him) of the day. The edge of the paper was swiftly fluttering against the humid morning breeze; he was staring at it like it held his fate, sealing it tight. He started to recline slowly,

"I didn't write that, definitely," Mitsui Hisashi tapered his eyes, then suddenly grinning, "You definitely caught her, whoever she is. You lucky bastard!" he locked his arm around his neck, congratulatory.

"N... no! It wasn't like that at all!" he got hold of himself, "I don't know what happened. What are you doing here anyway? What time–?"

"Six thirty. You don't want to go there for a bit though. Akagi's goaded, as usual..."

"Ah, I'm sorry for all the trouble," he said, wiping his lips (drool by alcohol), fixing his hair. He sidestepped, certain of his breath.

"How'd the hell did you turn up here anyway? It's Tanuki, if you forgot," the blue-eyed nagged, helping the vice-captain straighten himself as they exited, walking for Josei. The latter can zoom in on his sweat. "I wouldn't blame you going in here though. Lucky you!"

"Yeah well, it's... it's not like you haven't experienced it yourself,"

"It's good you finally took interest in women, you know," the other said; Kogure gulped, taking his strides with a perfect pretense of enthusiasm as he continued, "...I mean, all you talk about's tangent lines, Shakespeare, Oe this, Bio that,"

"Well it finally paid off," he changed topic, "I'll be at Gakushuin by winter."

He reckoned he said it with bitterness.

"And how did you find me here anyhow?" ` ` ` ` ` ` ` ` ` ` "Fortunately, my friend, I was jogging."

_Day two. Twenty-seventh hour. Morning sweat and grime, dank undiscerning–_

and as Akagi's afflicting/disfiguring fists and forehead ticks faded, the practice game was moved in the morning, to his most surprise. There was obviously some sort of conniving here, he accused silently, taking advantage of his sobriety and the team's lack of proper warm-up. He held the ball, wary of traveling; the power forward was making it hard to pass–

"Kogure!" the ex-MVP signaled; he passed to Rukawa (no dodgy stare, he thought), and Mikoshiba blocked.

"Now I'll make this one, too!" He ran, all seemingly villainous, passing the ball. That damn nameless, (stud of a) power forward, he thought; Akagi failed to block as the other captain lay-ups.

"Wh..." he stood still. Stud?

The gym seemed overcrowded, Josei could definitely go part-time cheerleaders.

He heard Ayako fanning like a Tenggu. "Rukawa! What are you doing? Do something, yeah! Oi–" she turned to the bench, "Don't just sit there!"

"Don't mind, don't mind! Fight Shohoku!" Don't mind, don't mind, he heard, his body was beginning to shiver. Mark it completely, and don't mind. Give yourself away to the sea. He ran, getting the ball from Miyagi; the freshman signaled him to pass, but he was dearly supposed to pass it to the three-pointer, as a remuneration of some sort, but this was mock Inter High–it only proved nothing. He widened his lips.

"Good play," he patted the freshman– ` ` ` ` ` ` ` ` ` ` "Nice pass, Kogure!"

He heard it from Mitsui, and knowing that he was at least more comfortable not crediting anyone, or he could thrive nourishing his own three points; he keeps grudges, he remembered, besting everyone (that conceited one-on-one with the freshman, for instance). He often took everything upon himself; if you win, or smile, or score or even mop the floor to a gleaming shine, it's all because he was there to put you up to it, and fortunately for the victim the latter was obliged to go with the flow,

"59-54. The real game's just beginning," he heard Akagi, re-positioning themselves. Mikoshiba passed the ball, gyrating his arms behind him; Mitsui soars, falling short of good distance to block–

that's how he is, Kogure mused. If you lost, or frown, or slip through the gleaming mopped floor, he was burdened to jerk a knee, and fortunately for the victim the latter was obliged to go with the flow. He walks for the ball limply, his glasses fogged as he tried passing to Miyagi; that power forward who seemed to nitpick him was probably hitting on him.

"Charged time out! Shohoku!"

"They sure are the number one in Shizuoka," he said in between breaths. Mitsui handed him a bottle of water.

Ayako interjected. "Don't let them eat you Kogure-sempai. Remember the team was behind the number one in Kanagawa by only one goal."

"Right. One, we're as powerful as them," the captain grimly considered before continuing, "Two, we can't tell Hanamichi we didn't make it." The three other starters shuddered.

"I won't let him say that–" ` ` ` ` ` ` ` ` ` ` ` "No one's making fool of me!" ` ` ` ` ` ` ` ` ` ` ` "Idiot."

One, he's as smart as any other bookworm is. All these could be Mitsui's way of hegemony, but he doesn't hold anything. Two, Mitsui was straight as a tangent line. Such a lovable fault–

he ran alongside him, switching to defensive motions, raising his arms wide, like a net, giving Rukawa the chance to pass it to the other blue-eyed; he dribbled, stepping backwards, shooting. The penetrating shrieks of the sneakers began to soothe him again as he rushed for that nitpicker, flexing at both sides. Swiftly getting pass him, Kogure ran as fast as his ad hominem conclusion as his fingers abraded the ball, prompting the shot for a rebound. When Akagi shouted for a swift attack, Miyagi was already passing the ball to the pale ace shooter, those miniscule sweat drops trickling like dews in the ocean, as if to wigwag further warmth to his body, to his malodorous armpits and clammy thighs, like his blue shirt beginning to darken. His knee, he imagined, was already hurting, his eyes shot wide, his mind roundabout the tangent line that is Mitsui and the curved, continuous, altering paths of Kogure's thoughts, the saddening fact of which is that they were to meet at some point, only to part in infinity.

Just when you think you're in control, he thought, just when his body graced him of resilience, with Miyagi trafficking himself in, chopping the ball out of Yufune as he ran for it, grazing, touching, possessing. Just when he thought he was on a roll, an un-cul de sac–here he cannot let this pass, like he did so two years back, here he cannot accept the fact that his team is going to lose and he flung the ball to Rukawa, leveling his body, closing his eyes, guarding his chest with his arms. He veered towards the benches, and he had no intention of warming up there any time soon.

Just when he thought he was on a roll, just when all pronouns become overused in his head, he stood up, and by then Rukawa has managed to dunk the ball with two Josei players blocking. The game ended with a rebounded three-point attempt from Mikoshiba, earning the first victory of the practice matches for Shohoku, 73-72.

He was trying to regain composure, "I didn't know you would do this well."

Akagi smirked. "You too, Mikoshiba."

"Heh, but we'll have the rest of the games!" ` ` ` ` ` ` ` ` ` ` "Ha! Humor me!"

"Oi Shohoku boys!" Yufune's inviting voice was welcomed by smug ears, "Tanuki's a good breather after lunch."

"Hai!" ` ` ` ` ` ` ` ` ` ` ` "Let's leave those two lovebirds then," Mitsui suggested.

It was settled by the thirtieth hour.

_Day two, annoying Venetian car curtains, their soggy bodies pulling off of the curb– _

and the sun rose at the top of Mt. Fuji (the other team called it diamond head) and it was, they expressed interestingly enough, was a sign of good fortune. It provided divine illumination below the whiteness of the crag's ice caps as if to soften such callous hands he was trying to allay with the creamy sand, brushing them off as he caressed the earth, mustering enough courage; shriveled dawn trees surrounded the pathway as they strolled more (lethargically) for the pier, like they were beginning to refuse all that supposed divination and diamond head. Clouds have dispersed to give the sky a blueness, and at the right end of the path Kogure could see the lake, he can finally see the coarse sands and dry leaves, he can see that fallen dawn tree, he can see the dry cicada planks by the rear of the car-bus he rode earlier, inciting him to lay his body, to not ramble for a second and just stare at the stillness of the waters, cooled and subterranean, dark and rippling with uttermost quietude, just the kind of stare that'd accuse you of–

"Daydreaming?"

It was Miyagi this time; Mitsui was laughing with the other team. He denied (yet again), while the other thought of Ayako.

They next joined with one of Josei's loud brain wave, "Man, my hand's all gutted with all the dribbling and blocking. I can barely move them now,"

Mitsui joshed, "Well, there goes your sex life!"

The other blushed.

"Why, you savvied?" ` ` ` ` ` ` ` ` ` ` ` "Heh! You want tips?"

Kogure's slower steps (to the point of just tailing them around) didn't do any good reducing his audition range. "Let's just say I know that an aroused gobbler changes colors. Red, pale red, pale pale red, whathaveyou. Yup, it's a very partisan kind of bird."

Everyone laughed at this, though for the brown-eyed, the punch line would've been more wittily quaint if he wasn't thinking of Mitsui's–

"Yeah right–" ` ` ` ` ` ` ` ` ` ` "It's true! My friend said," the Josei member changed into a bass tone,

"You got a bone in there, that's why you call it boner!"

They were laughing again, and Kogure can tell they weren't in the least concerned with their flustered cheeks (and arms scratching heads) since, if one teases the other for it, he might as well recant the former was as red as their flag's hinomaru (rising sun).

Now whether he left for the cicada planks, or on the contrary the boys left him (and their apparently unrefined world of dirties and fraternity), was an uncertainty of a more wounded nature that even Kogure would not take advantage of by licking, and even making it fatalist if he tried to be scholastic about it. And neither did he try to; he shifted his glasses so his sweat rolled down his nose bridge, trying to subdue the heat as it penetrated the dark blue waters. By this time he was sitting by the trees and inquisitively shot a gawp at these running youngsters, at-last-free youngsters, enjoying the sun, enjoying the lake, benefiting from the 38,000 yen they paid as the sun reclines just atop Fuji's ice caps, like an eclipse,

_One, two! One, two! _Here it goes again.

Mitsui was waving at him, summoning him; he heard him shout at least a challenge to run faster than him. He waved back, refusing, feeling the dried wood on his back. The scruffy-haired started to take his shirt off; here, at its most illuminating moment, Kogure has even memorized the way he would clasp the former's right hand, loosening it at his opposite side as it adjoins with his red shirt (he probably has hundreds of that kind of shirt, he observed). He would do the same with his other arm, and as each second unfolds, so does his hips, his stomach, and when Kogure gulped he has taken sight of his half-naked, pale, pale red body, sun kissed and iridescent against the summer breeze, starting out so easily conspicuous,

as it was also something sleazy, something inching past the edges of his breath, something undeniably wrong. Is Mitsui's jet black hair, tucked under her ears, flowing against ramen steam, as beautiful as Mitsui's sprinting legs, flexing with the sand? Something was amiss, he thought. He dated back to the study camp, he dated further back to Rukawa's one on one with Mitsui; he even dated as far back as their practice match with that androgynous-sounding Okita. The afternoon is beginning to seep all his sweat like a slithering smoke despite the coldness of his hands, and he has approximately three and a half hours before dinner, and another four hours before curfew, and he can actually feel languid with all these over-rambling and excessive analysis when he could carouse with this running figure in front of him (he pursed his lip, as usual).

Mitsui sat beside him.

"You seem distracted," ` ` ` ` ` ` ` ` ` ` ` "Huh? Ha...hahaha!"

A sweat dropped in his forehead. "That's about the 11th time you laughed like that today."

They can see Akagi and Mikoshiba turning up in the distance.

"Oops, there goes the lovebirds–" ` ` ` ` ` ` ` ` ` ` "Heh... hahaha,"

"And that's the twelfth."

He gulped, silent.

"Why don't you try swimming? You're always clammy it's already distracting me."

"U-huh."

"Well," he finally (at last) stood up, "What do you think? Good day or what?"

"Yeah, this view lasts."

"Ah, well, gotta train those Josei!" And so he scuttled towards the lake. All these, to boot, point to one thing: you throw clothes, too, surf yourself away, give yourself like the lake. He had always thought of thinking what to do after this, as he can't say for sure he wanted to give the sport up yet; you can't really blame a basketball player getting scared of losing it, to wax it poetically, he was already running for the planks as the others notice him, swiftly dashing. The cumbersome impact of his body dunking in the waters put a smile on everyone's faces, as it was something to be refreshed about, and they, too, started to run for it,

though their state of mind was far beyond his own. He must find something to hold on to. But what is it? Books? Gakushuin? A person? Is it a he or a she, anyhow? That sounded better, but what should this person look like? A bookworm, or a delinquent? Does this person have what he lacked, or should it be yin and yang? Is this person graced with fortune? The looks? The same interests? Or would this person just pass him by? Will they be both self-conscious around people? What about gobblers or oysters? What about horniness, sex? Is that how it works? Or could you actually be one with that person?

He then slowly awoke to the sound of chirping birds, which often implied mid-afternoon, ginger sun and wetter wafts, dry leaves and stark, cold water. The Tanuki lake resounded with squeaking wood and serene rippling waters, and the earth smelled like autumn cherry blossoms though he wasn't sure if he saw one at all. His shirt dried up beside him, as well as his glasses. His body was starting to weigh heavier from all the swimming, and if stream got down to his eardrums he was quite sure that no one was around. Talk about bigheartedness, he thought; no one bothered waking him up!

A familiar voice then irked him, "Thank god you're awake,"

"What time is it?" ` ` ` ` ` ` ` ` ` ` "Around five or so."

"Shoot," Kogure put his shirt on, re-checking the sound of his voice. "I'm sorry for all the trouble, Mitsui."

"They told me the way–" ` ` ` ` ` ` ` ` ` ` "Why didn't you wake me up?"

He smiled sheepishly, "I accidentally slept myself."

"Huh," he replied. "Absolute sleep corrupts."

"Absolutely." ` ` ` ` ` ` ` ` ` ` "Better to be sleepless... Now, where do we go...??"

"There'll be a bus-car by the end of the pathway," he pointed out. "As if '96 wouldn't get better without more cabs."

The brown-eyed's sun-burnt skin begins to crackle at his back.

"Well," he paused on his stroll, "Wait,"

"C'mon man, ten more minutes and my stomach will growl,"

"Yeah–"

A minute of silence ensued; they stood still, looking at each other.

"Your back hurts?"

"I don't feel a thing."

"You seem... wound up."

"No, it's not like that at all. Don't mind me."

"I don't like to press you a duty, but we'll be lost in the woods if we don't hurry."

"Okay."

They walked further, fostering more silence.

"Your back still hurts?"

"A bit."

"We can't rest."

"I know. Don't mind, don't mind." A jewel trickled on his face.

"Darn, it's going to rain."

"It was my fault, sorry."

"We gotta run."

"What?"

He held Kogure's arm, and as they set out to sprint,

"Mitsui..."

"What?"

Silence.

"What is it?"

"Mitsui... no... no koto... no koto suki dayo."

* * *

_tbc._


	3. Day Two and a Half

The rain trickled like grains of sand. His hand parted from his, and they stood there as if waiting for each other's responses; unmoved, uncompromised, unreeled.

It took the blue-eyed a long fall of stretch to finally prod the silence.

"What's that supposed to mean?"

"Exactly what it means, Mitsui."

He smiled, "Ah, you're probably thinking of the other Mitsui?"

"No, it's true–I mean, no I don't."

"...are you pulling my leg or your back still hurts?"

"I'm... I'm not trying to be funny–"

"Well you must be."

"No I–I'm not–"

"Yep,"

With the summer rains jabbing their backs, Kogure motioned him to walk some more. Their heavy footsteps with the softened earth are so far removed from both their thoughts.

The brown-eyed started. "That's okay, I guess I'm just this crazy."

The other did not reply.

"I started to think about it two years back," he said, walking. "You were so intimidating—I... I thought I was bound to dislike you. Then I ended up tutoring you, I ended up getting slapped, I ended up tutoring you again. I've always thought it was the other way around."

"Well..."

"...well what?"

"I'm sorry for that second bit," he looked away, clasping his hands at his nape, trying to whistle.

"Yeah, you probably didn't mean it."

Silence.

"Say, Kim—Kogure,"

"Don't mind it. I'm not so sure myself."

"No, I mean," he recoiled, "...could you... uh... say that again?"

"Say what again?"

"That—"

Kogure stopped, earning a backward glance from the blue-eyed.

"You wish."

"Humor me—"

"I confessed. I didn't intend to bloat your ego—though now I wish I hadn't—"

Their footsteps ricocheted as their silence grew harrowing.

"I like you very much."

"I see."

They further tiptoed in silence, zigzagging,

"—well?"

"Well what Kogure?"

"Do you like me?"

"You're pushing it."

Raindrops began to shift directions.

"Are you offended?"

"No, of course not,"

"What is it then?"

"I told I understand already, darn it!"

They marched farther, gorging on windswept, hollow drizzles.

"What do you want me to say? 'Thank you, I-like-you-too'?"

"...I guess not,"

"Damn right you guessed not."

"Do you dislike me?"

"No, it's not that—"

"Yeah, maybe—"

"God, Kogure! Why are you so gutsy today? Can't we delay this 'til we get there?"

"Sure we can—"

"Wait," he scratched his head, "...there's supposed to be a signage here."

"I don't see it—"

"Of course we don't! Goddamn this place."

Rains get heavier.

"Well..." muttered the vice-captain, "we can go that way—" he pointed out a seeming void, "then we can take that road or there's a pathway, and you—"

"Kogure! Fuck this—that's the lake!"

Silence.

"What now?" He looked straight at Kogure, and somehow, he knew what he was going to say,

"Can you kiss me?"

He cast his russet eyes on the ground, meek and brash at the same time.

"What?"

"Can you—"

"Yeah I understand Kogure," he hesitated. "But I kiss girls and pu—uh, you're obviously neither."

He was blushing, Kogure can see it. And like an hourglass, time turned sharply, erasing any references, any orientation,

"I like you," he said it again.

They stood, waiting for each other's reactions.

"Okay," the blue-haired nodded.

"Seriously."

"I told you I got it."

Silence; the rain defied all audition.

"What? You want me to say I like you too?"

"No... I..."

"Then what do you want me to do?"

He faltered, "...would you kiss me?"

"I told you already."

Silence; eyes meet and part, anxious, cautious, undeniably eager.

"Here?"

Kogure nodded.

"I refuse."

"Why?"

"Why?"

"Are you offended?"

"I don't have to tell you."

"But why...??"

More silence.

Mitsui was a gallant, knee-jerker as he looked the other straight in the eyes and questioned everything he's believed in,

"Alright."

He brushes his hair up, untangling its scruffiness as the waters seep into his locks; he closed his eyes, breathing hard, looking sideways—he cannot feel anything,

"Fine. Kiss me."

He pretended to stand still, he pretended to be cadenced; Kogure was already slowly walking towards him, not batting an eyelid. The rains have disfigured the expressions with which Mitsui wanted to source from him—he took his glasses off while brushing his tresses up with the other hand, slinking, edging, inching past his breath,

Kogure looks down as their bodies move at very successive, apprehensive moments, trying to lock his lips deeper,

while by this time Mitsui pushed him away; a second felt like without end as they breathed heavily.

"Why?"

Mitsui wiped his lips. "What?"

Silence.

"I hardly felt it," mumbled Kogure. "...but did... but did you, uh... did you like it?"

"Barely."

Kogure was an ignorant, dirtied bookworm; he rummaged in his mind what a kiss should be like, in the textbooks, in the aloof dirty jokes—

and with Mitsui clenching his hands, compulsively ironing his wet shirt, Kogure thought of being relayed back and forth, raindrop to raindrop only to get worn out, screening him from the world, from what he's been told to believe in,

"Go ahead," Mitsui said, raising his arms at shoulder's length; he despised the fact that he cannot hide his limbs from shaking, not from the absolutely zero temperature of summer, but from a sense of regret and jarred eagerness,

"Do whatever you want."

He shifted uncomfortably. What if...??

The blue-haired extended his shoulders in the air, as if pinned down, as if to expect three minutes more of a kiss, or a grope, but Kogure has already extended his own arms, like a net to a butterfly, like a predator for the former, and like cherry blossoms for Kogure.

He held him tight, burying his face on his chest. The other was starting to loosen his arms, slowly coming down, and grasping the brown-eyed shoulder unhurriedly pushed him away; and without chance to parry he started walking away from him, from those arms, those arms which were nothing more but limbs of a lipless. Kogure could only stand still to construe a defense as he watched the ebbing figure of Hisashi Mitsui.

By now, time was as secluded as his place is in the woods. No one could be seen, except maybe the downpour gushing down the terrains as they unite into mud, his eyes shining on them.

He sat down—nothing could ever faze him right now. He bent his knees, as if begging for embrace, welcomingly doing so. What break in monotony, he thought; but when it rains oh how it pours—

"Hey,"

Mitsui was knocking his shoulder; he didn't budge.

"I found an alcove."

"A what?"

"An alcove."

"Tell... tell me where it is... I'll... I'll follow you later,"

"Oh come on Kogure. You can't expect me to be overjoyed kissing another man."

He mended himself, whispering, "...but you made an exception,"

"What?" the other shouted.

"You made an exception."

He snorted. "Yeah, I kinda did. So what?"

"Why?"

"Why?"

"Why did you make an exception?"

He held out his hand, the other taking it.

"Why not?"

"What do you mean why not?"

"I refuse to explain—"

"You kind of owe it to yourself, and me, too. Come on, enlighten me."

He brushed himself up, following Mitsui.

"You're getting annoying, Kogure."

"Honestly, so are you."

Silence.

"You're head over heels with me."

"I said enlighten me—ah... never mind,"

"Enlighten me. Confess, wonder, humor me. Whatever—can I ask you something though?"

"What?"

"Would you give up basketball for me?"

"Of cou—"

"No, wait, that was a dumb question,"

"Well so is the one who asked,"

"Of course you will, you geisha!"

"Geisha? I don't appreciate that at all—"

"Okay, fine. But of course you'd give it up," he said, motioning Kogure to enter the wooden recess first. "You're not necessarily the MVP type so you could easily trade it with something like, uh... like—"

"Like you?"

The question resounded through the timber cave.

"Maybe—"

"It's dark, thank god, I don't have to see your smug face," he explored, as if blind.

Mitsui frowned.

"I wouldn't trade you for Peers."

"Of course you won't, that's the only thing you got—"

"And what do you have?"

"Basketball—"

"As if."

The voices were bouncing off of the dawn woods, eviscerating their ears as drizzles joined the reverberation—and so they let it pass, they let it all subside.

Mitsui declared next, "I'm gonna take my clothes off—"

"Please don't."

Silence.

"I'm gonna get a cold. So will you,"

"I'd rather that."

"You can't see a thing in here anyway," he said, and by the sound of his shirt dropping on the ground, and the metallic clanging of his wristwatch, the brown-haired could only look down.

He faintly saw his red shirt, dripping.

"So," the other sighed, signaling, "...take your shirt off."

"What? No. Please. Please, no."

"You can't see a thing!"

"I can see your nipples!"

More silence.

"Well, I don't care. Look away if you want."

And so Kogure did, with meticulous hushed minutes.

"Kogure... honestly now, honestly... I find it more flattering than, uh, insulting."

"What is? Oh—"

"It's not just because you're a friend, you know? I knew you back in junior high, we've spent a year trying out for the team, then came the past months," he bowed down.

"You're getting menopausal,"

"No I'm not!"

He can see Mitsui turning his stare away from him.

"You're right. I don't have anything else but the sport, and by winter it'll be gone. I don't expect someone to scout me, I'm not even par with Akagi,"

The other did not reply.

"So I must find something to hold on to. That kind of sentimental stuff, you know? Everything will be gone after winter, so I must find one. But I dunno what exactly it is," he puffed, "School? Pop's store? I don't excel at both,"

He continued, "So I decided it was going to be a girl. But bookworm or delinquent? Refined or grumpy? Rich? Famous? I definitely don't want ugly,"

Kogure smiled.

"Then there's marriage, sex, children. I dunno if that's how it works, but it's better than going back there trashing about. I mean—if you were a girl, I would've kissed you with more tongue."

He widened his lips, scornfully smiling. "Don't get cocky, Mitsui."

They blushed.

"Never mind."

A long fall of stillness trailed them like the mingling shadows as the downpour began to subside.

"Listen, Kogure, if you want me to be more civil and thoughtful about this, you gotta give me time. A week? After the Inter Highs? Anything but now sounds good."

He tried to reply.

"You don't have to say anything. I... I'm not sure myself, but I think I understand you more than anyone."

With the plains ready for a sojourn, they decided to stroll some more and hopefully find a philanthropist (who can give dry clothes, or a cracker would do) or a bus-car. But Josei High School seemed to have magically disappeared, and so with nothing else to do they went circling Tanuki lake unaware, until the 50,000 gathered footsteps they made got them to Suzenji-machi—

"I could use a soft mat," Mitsui yawned, on the edge of eating his own arm. Kogure's glasses were highlighting the bags around his eyes.

"I could eat a thousand soba—oh, which reminds me," he sparkled—

"That Mitsui?"

"I'll stick to pronouns here on."

The other can't help but laugh.

"What?"

"Nothing... Well, if we don't rest I'm going to laugh manically for the rest of my handsome life,"

"I'll second that."

And so after pawning Mitsui's watch, they decided to stay by the decimated, has-been spa Kogure stayed at last night. The vice-captain, on the other hand, went to add sencha teas and soba noodles to his tab (and endure at least half an hour of torture from the Nasumine's)—they took turns going into the bath house, certain that they'll revert to the vicious circle of shouting and excessive rambling, as well as lyrically waxed rhetoric and suicidal introspection; and to further this sense of uncertainty and distrust between them,

"Here's the line, yeah? Whoever crosses this will pay for the watch—"

"—or the tab."

And so they crawled at the edges of the room. Kogure was sure he could petition for bankruptcy litigation, and Mitsui wasn't at all eager about this nearness. When the night settled in, their bodies immediately surrendered to the tatami mats that they were both snoring, and actually more than obedient to the law of gravity with all the drool and disheveled hair. Dawn tree leaves rustle against each other, as if to signal daybreak. Merchants start to roll on with their foodstuff and tea-tending, and graveyard ramen houses began closing doors. It could be one hour past four in the morning when the sun began to rise, but then neither of them can't remember as they drowsily awoke half an hour later since six in the morning that Kogure's face was by then buried against Mitsui's chest.

* * *

_tbc._


	4. Day 1,994

"A real quitter's afraid of not winning he doesn't think about trying."

He had heard him say this no more than to defend, if that was it at all accurate to say so; if it was meant to hearten him at all, Hisashi Mitsui was one of the insatiable-s—the ones who'd at least outcry at fatigued, complaining bodies as they (sophisticatedly) commit dribbling or traveling blunders, doubtlessly because he was one of those who wanted to bask in glory first, when it's still crisp, still fresh. Or before someone else bask in it, before he retired to a good knee's sleep and before everyone in Shohoku relayed anecdotes of failure back and forth, benchwarmer to benchwarmer, until he faded away, until he became hand-me-down. Or before the year deprived him of one sunny accomplishment, that one glory he wanted to bask in as he excelled at nothing else, because Mitsui was, one or the other, a Japanese total loser. Never had anything his parents could be proud of. Dribbling unknowing girls. Spent almost a decade in basketball his parents didn't watch (probably also the reason why he loved the sport at first). He's more than close to anything resembling a sense of accomplishment, he's the junior high MVP, and all these years of dearth were but a flood, all these years he's been fulfilled and fueled enough, until this, until high school (prime dearth years),

then this floppy four-eye comes in telling him what a quitter is.

"You're a good player, Mitsui."

"Good isn't enough."

Kogure shifts his glasses, moving closer to the hospital bed as he fixes the flowers by the bedside.

"Enough for what?"

"Shohoku for one. Everything."

He was snorting, looking intently at how his locks would fall down to his brows, etching his face anew, etching a sense of admonishment anew. "I won't come back. You know that, yeah? It doesn't matter anymore. Shohoku won't even pass the first round, and I'll still be in this god-awful hospital—"

He looked straight at him.

"At least you'd get to play," he said, requesting for the food the other held. "Quitters will be quitters, first rounders will be first rounders. Doesn't matter."

"So," he beamed next, understanding that the speechlessness with which this droopy figure before him was ironically conveying was relatively distressing himself, for no apparent reason other than his absence to the team, and in fact it was this kind of cautiousness that—

"Here's your homework. I'd like to help you," he fixed the bridge of his glasses, "...but I don't feel like it right now—"

"You always wear them?"

"What is? Oh, my glasses?" he wiped them, pursing his lips next.

"I'm supposed to—" ` ` ` ` ` ` ` ` ` "You don't not wear them?"

"Barely fetching, yeah? Haha... hahaha!"

A sweat rolled on Mitsui's forehead.

"Nah, it fits your frame." ` ` ` ` ` ` ` ` ` ` "Yeah?" he smiled.

"Yup. Though you should beef up."—

"If you're not a kouhai my fist would've been screwed in your head."

Kogure Kiminobu was parrying the undignified looks his supposed comrades were giving him, staring out like a fire of sea, distant but piercing; he ogled back, requesting for sympathy, exalting himself to the point of ridiculousness. The Josei High School stood like it had crashed against a violent wave of oceans, like it would've been better if the monsoon season wasn't a double-edged phase in their summers, always breaking, and at this point he was humble enough to surrender eyeing wars of some sort,

"Where did both of you go?"

A sheepish ex-MVP was steadily whispering, "Akagi, Akagi, you have no idea."

"Mitsui-sempai and Kogure-sempai got lost in Tanuki!"

The other team has fastened themselves to the conversation,

"Sheer stupidity is what it is," said Mikoshiba, dribbling the ball.

"It was a summer storm you twat!" screeched Kogure, silencing the crowd. He was clenching his fist, as if engaged to brawl with mere, piercing eyeing weapon—

"The bus-car there's almost two blocks away. Can't miss it. That was probably sheer calculating stupidity, too, though I—" Yufune went on, "...you went to Shuzenji-machi!"

"Huh?" narrowed Rukawa, suddenly stopping on his solo practice,

Tick.

"Bath houses, tropical girls. I didn't know you're that adventurous, Mitsui-san,"

"Yeah, so we went there—" ` ` ` ` ` ` ` ` ` ` "How was it?" grinned Ryota,

Tick.

"Yeah, we met Takehiko Inoue." ` ` ` ` ` ` ` ` ` ` "Cool! Will he be finishing his Chameleon Jail?"

"I think he already did," rejoined the Josei member,

Tick.

"Yup. One Shizuokan after another. Jet black hair in the evening, short hair in the morning."

"You did not!" it was Yasuda this time, "You're amazing, Kogure-sempai!"

Tick.

"_Ah, Mitsui got me into it, with all that soba and... haha... hahahaha!"_

Day three, fifty first hour, fever, fervor, frenzy, flurry; to love is to almost believe—

"My... my head, hurts," the brown-eyed awoke to the sound of chirping birds and distractingly sterile smell of (ethyl) alcohol, and more than this feeling of disorientation was a warmth that even the highest temperatures of summer would not dare bestow, probably because it's ten in the morning the dews around the cicadas, which are only starting to thrive, have only started to fade that their coolness collapsed into a swirl of unseen mist, trying to cool him off, spreading into his body like a recoiled oceanic breeze, and at this time it could be said that his points of reference are as fragmented as his stuttering voice, requesting for sympathy as his glasses were not in sight. He imagined that getting a cold in the middle of summer was no lesser crime than having to spend 38,000 yen and actually practice basketball for the upcoming Inter High, and as he broke his numb posture sitting by the clinic bed, demonstrating a knowledge in the alleged doctrine of determination by holding back the tender twinge on his legs, he took the first step towards the door when the cool breeze swept him up again,

"Are you alright?" the nurse suddenly opened the door.

"Yeah, I'm alright, thank you," he reaches for the nurse's arms, steadying themselves. "Sorry for all the trouble—"

"You shouldn't be going out like that during a summer storm. A lightning can strike you."

It was more than lightning, he thought.

"Well," the nurse sat him down by the futon at the clinic's lobby, "Today should be a good one. A week or so before summer really kicks in."

He downed the medicine the nurse gave him, "Who's that?"

"Your teammate. Worse than you. Did he do anything in particular that would make him twitch eyes that much?"

"I don't think so." ` ` ` ` ` ` ` ` ` "Anyway, you can go to the gym once you can walk. Free food at the pantry."

_And so he did._ It was almost eleven in the morning, and the sun was already unsullied with its burning beams, hardly metrical as they struck his pancakes; Mitsui wasn't sure if it was the foliage that exasperated him like a customer would with his sodden, squishy pancakes, and if it was the swaying trees that actually made him twitch a brow (or the incoming wheelchairs with sodden, squishy bodies in them), it was a deadly thought for him to actually provide for himself the knowledge that he hated everything. Such beautiful day wasn't charming at all, and the specific ways by which the birds chirp and the people falling about as if they were about to sink him into pitiful grace—all these specific illustrations have surpassed his anticipating mind. It says so much about being bitter, he could hear himself say, and he could concur, too, that it's been edifying—what would've been more edifying it were not for his knee?

A physical therapist was on his way to fetch him for today's gathering-of-the-decrepits. He could even memorize how he would sit, by the futon, flexing his back so it would straightly lounge, leveling his left knee over another mattress as he bend the right, irritating knee, resting it to his irritating thighs so his hands could irritatingly smooth it out with callous fingers and gentle massages, and at the end he would not dare show gratitude. He would hold his ground by the cold, metallic bars and pretend to stroll like a cancer-ridden patient, like his knee was impaired to the point of muscle deterioration. His parents would see him no less than thrice a week, and then he wouldn't remember as he would vaguely listen to Kogure thirty minutes since five in the afternoon that he would hear him muttering something about progress in the team, or the output of his homework.

His pencil dropped.

"What's wrong?" the slender glass-man would say to him, every time. He would, by this time, re-arrange that infamous phrase so as not to make it redundant, like his routine is in this distractingly, sterilely-smelling hospital. This is just a test of time, it will pass. You can't quit now that the team's making progress. You don't quit until you try. Try coming back first before quitting. It's not as simple as quitting that easily. A real quitter's afraid of not winning he doesn't think about trying.

"This is weak life, it's what it is."

"You don't mean that at all, do you? You got family, friends—"

"It is. It's one crap after another. This bed is irritating me," he motioned for the other to help him up for the sofa, "...argh... nothing ever happens. I get up, bake my face, toss my booger and toss me a booger breakfast. There's crap-all to look forward to."

He finally sat, dropping his pencil again.

Kogure walked beside him, picking it up, "We learned a new poem today."

"Yeah, so they did."

"Little I ask, my wants are few / I only wish a hut of stone / A very plain brown stone will do / That I may call my own / And close at hand is such a one / In yonder street that fronts the sun."

"Did crap-Matsumiya teach you that?"

"Oliver Holmes wrote it. We've learned a few, but it's the one that stood out. Because I didn't know what he meant."

_He finally did_, at this lunch time, with all professed morals unlearned, and whether his trickling sweat beads over his shirt were more than enough proofs for a sense of improbabilities, were justified all the same—he drank his bottled water next, going next in line as he joins the practice. Neither will his indecisiveness be settled here, as he dribbled the ball before making his three points, as he himself wasn't particularly eager about it, too (you could add 'afraid').

"How's Kogure-sempai doing?" Ishii asked, from behind him, as if burdened with trepidation (tautology intended)—

"Don't worry, Kuwata will probably replace him."

"R-right," the other spoke, "—though I wish he's here,"

He raised an eyebrow.

"We could definitely get some discipline aside from Akagi-sempai's... fist."

The blue-eyed smiled naively, innocently, like winter has passed and nostalgia was starting to percolate. He was handed the ball, and so he started to dribble, one sound after the other, his sneakers finally penetrating the floors—he tiptoed backwards, readying, giving himself a good aim at the ring, and as he ran like a light year from the chasm that is the space between his thoughts and his legs, he redefines necessity. Whether it was for his hegemony over the situation, he might as well get used to this wistfulness—

The ball bounces from the ring, looping, finally going down.

"Assemble!"

His tone, Mitsui mused, had more than enough force to amass an army; it felt foreboding.

"You! Mitsui! If you weren't a kouhai my fist would've been screwed in your head,"

"Where did both of you go?" asked Yasuda.

He offered a meek, ambiguous reply, "Akagi, Akagi, you have no idea."

"Mitsui-san and Kogure-san got lost in Tanuki!"

The other team has stopped on their tracks, obviously swelling their ears up.

"It was a summer storm you twat!" screeched the blue-eyed to Miyagi; his face seemed to be pale, pale, red. "Oh look Rukawa! There goes Mari and her heart eyes!"

The freshman narrowed his eyes. "Don't change the subject."

"Sheer silliness," Ayako joined, "I mean, the bus-car there's almost two blocks away. Can't miss it. Though I—" she went on, "...you went to Shuzenji-machi!"

Silence.

"I didn't know you're that adventurous, Mitsui-sempai!" Ishii blushed as he declared this, apparently inebriated from the still images of women he obtained from the blue-eyed himself—

"Yeah, so we went there—" ` ` ` ` ` ` ` ` ` "How was it?" grinned Riyota—

"Stop this!"

Silence.

"You! Check on Kogure. All of you, clean our side. We'll resume at one."

The brown-eyed has already made the end of the street, and if he wasn't grounded to study he would've made it to the local store and provide at least a decently prepared food for his teammate; but his knee seemed to be all the better now, he mused, as he wasn't at the hospital when he visited almost a month ago, nor was he at his house when he strolled around his route (he left his homework to his 'nice' parents), and if he wasn't taking the train when going home he would've surmised that Mitsui truly did quit the team. He wasn't intimidated, he wasn't thwarted at the least (first rounders are still first rounders); the days stretched into a week of studying, and he got the news from Akagi, who was, as overly analyzed as it is, slightly relieved that no one else would bicker that his use was only his height—

He walked, going for home,

"Daydreaming?"

He smiled, finally.

"Not very often," he wasn't glancing back.

"Ah," whispered the youngster behind him, "...you're probably disturbed all these weeks. What did you do to those post-it's you stole at the faculty room?"

"Wha—Mitsui! You—"

"Kogure! Glad to see you! What'd you say!"

"What'd you say! Glad to see you!"

"Yup," he punched the brown-eyed's arm, "More than a month, huh? Hasn't changed a bit with all that books,"

"I've been grounded to study. There's this initial exam for Gaku—"

"Ah, save me from the chestnut—"

_And that's how he remembered it_, the ex-MVP would try reckoning. He could be as gallant as a knight in a shining armor, which he mostly preferred as it draws attention from you-know-who, and he could be as discomfited as a certain glass-boy whom he had just given a porn magazine; it was a special duality in which they share a sense of vexation he wasn't keen on knowing why. He strolled down the pavements of the school, leisurely, taking time to memorize the way he would roll his tongue, mouthing unnecessary gibberish to a hectic, cold-ridden teammate, which he therefore preferred as by the time late afternoon kicked in, by the time the cicada trees finally bloomed with their fresh leaves, Kogure would've forgotten everything about it. He has unbuttoned his polo (under a light green shirt) as the sun was torturing him, and the girls—whom they referred to as tropical beauties as they basked beautifully in the sun—would marvel at the sight , and he, too, would revel, starting out so easily nourishing,

as it was also something sleazy, something inching past the edges of their breaths, something undeniably right. It could probably do well as a feeling of success, clearing him (perhaps) of sorry faces, clearing his mind so he could think further, to become somebody, to have a reason to bicker or grin, a reason to become good enough for winter's tournament, to make tomorrow all the better. The nurse wasn't in. He paused, slowly turning the door's knob. When he felt the sun—he smiled; here it goes again.

The best moment in this kind of situation is when you encounter something, a perspective, a mood, a reaction perhaps, a view that would last, something absolute and purely exclusive. He walked silently towards the brown-eyed. Here this situation is, he thought, set down by the universe, or by fate; a situation he's never encountered, maybe something he thought he'd never encounter. Like a hand coming out, taking his,

and if it's any worth at all, it was a beautiful day. The sun crept defiantly, indeed, as it could even go through the dark window panes, and the smell couldn't even compare to dawn tree leaves blossoming (as if he knew what they really smelled like), because dawn tree leaves are blossoms of the dawn tree, because he doesn't exactly know (he has already sat down beside him), or is it because dawn tree leaves weren't blossoms—and more than this excessive rambling on his end had made him more vulnerable than the waking figure beside him.

He gulped.

"Hey,"

He was stirring further up—"Hey... what—we back?"

"Yeah—" ` ` ` ` ` ` ` ` ` ` "That's... good to know," Kogure was massaging his temples,

"I think I just had the weirdest dream," ` ` ` ` ` ` ` ` ` ` "Oh yeah?"

"I had a cold—" ` ` ` ` ` ` ` ` ` ` "Yeah, you actually did."

"Oh? Ha...haha," he coughed. "Ah, yes, I remembered. The team was asking where we went, and Akagi was really getting furious. Then I was completely screeching. By the way, do you know anyone by the name of Takehiko Inoue?"

He stood up, helping the other, "Nope. Who is that?"

"Huh. I don't know myself." ` ` ` ` ` ` ` ` ` ` ` "You missed practice."

"Yeah, I know, I'm truly sorry."

Silence.

"They'll be going to Tanuki after the match later,"

"I'd rather abstain—" he frowned. ` ` ` ` ` ` ` ` ` ` ` "Of course."

"So..."

"Hmm?" smiled Kogure, "I'm starving,"

"You don't wanna go to the pantry." ` ` ` ` ` ` ` ` ` ` ` "Right."

"Listen, I... uh, I... here," he handed him a blossom, freshly picked as the vice-captain can still see the soil around the edges of the roots; the gesture would've been more heartening if it wasn't for the fact that the flower was too young to be picked—

"Thanks," he tried to form a smile.

"About last night..."

"Don't mind, don't mind."

Silence.

"Are you scared?"

"From what?"

He was blushing while his head reeled, though a substantial amount of considering all these silences and flustered cheeks could probably do well being neglected, as they might as well tease each other for it. And if this was the moment Mitsui dared encounter, or if this was what the universe provided him, it was surely vague enough to be rendered a defining moment at all. Would he want it at all? He had already been staring at the tiled floors and back at the quizzical gaze of Kogure, and so when the sunbeams finally hit his eyes his sweat rolled down his temple, trying to restrain whatever's left of his dignity as he could hear his own breathing. He shot the brown-eyed a confused look.

"Being called poof."

Silence.

"Hmm," he finally replied, "Maybe. I don't know."

"And are you?"

"Poof?"

"Yeah—" ` ` ` ` ` ` ` ` ` ` ` "I don't know. Are you?"

Mitsui guzzled hard, and with cool blue eyes, he looked straight at him, forming a reminiscing smile... "No. But... I'm happy when you're around."

* * *

_tbc._


	5. Day Three

That same morning, when the chirping birds began to yell with teeny-sounding protests (when the dawn leaves rustles into withering, he can't tell if the sun suddenly cowered behind the clouds), at first half-awake and barely attentive and then in his delirium some time ago, he looked Mitsui Hisashi straight to the eye, as if examining a vast wreckage, a memory, a mood, a reaction of some sort. Perhaps a perspective with which he could source out to arrange his thoughts himself, systematically—delirium to hallucination, wishful thinking to wistful thoughts, unrequited to unreturned, alone to company. The register was simply, for the lack of a better mindset to word it—infinite.

In the course of the next seconds, this ladder of a system eventually refined itself to mere stutters and twitching eyes, and Kogure began to think of a more comprehensive one-liner that could, in his cold-ridden state, encompass what he wanted say... something beautiful maybe, sarcastic probably, or even just look away. A kiss, all in the lips, had been the suspect of this, if he was even conscious of it, and already when the birds started to flap about, away from them, when the creaking of the door started to echo unto his ears like a maddening protest—he was sure that the flexing, running legs of this blue-eyed before him were more beautiful than the jet-black, flowing hair of his counterpart (which wasn't a pronoun, but anonymous nonetheless).

And so all he did was to preserve the best part of what this blue-eyed said to him, and make it his own.

"Me too."

"That's good to know." ` ` ` ` ` ` ` ` ` ` ` "...but aren't you supposed, to, uh,"

"What? Kiss girls and pu—" ` ` ` ` ` ` ` ` ` ` ` "Yeah, that part."

Mitsui shuddered. It felt ominous; a straight man, obliged to take this bent (common idiom for their likes) road? How ominous, that a man of honor (hormone) and gallantness (machismo) such as him would be despoiled by bent (idiom) culture! But who was he to be bitter about it? This prodding vice-captain was a friend, probably more than a friend, a friend he dared not lose as he barely has anything now—and honorable and gallant though he may be, he would have to sell himself as he had done so when he joined Tetsuo (who was, to be fair, also a friend), when he broke the ligaments of his left knee, when he cursed at the world; and there this four-eye was, bringing him flowers (did he court him that early?) everyday. Here it went again.

He helped the other to his feet, flustered obviously from the cold, giving him his medicine and guiding him for the door for breakfast (lunch). He tried not to reply, as he had nothing to say about it, as he himself was just as confused as those protesting birds like they were griping against all these racket,

"You don't have to say anything. We're friends no matter what."

They were walking down the school's hallways to join their team. The sun really did cower, and soon enough, the vertical brimmed of ashen clouds. He sat him down, and pandemonium ensued—

"Kogure-san!" everyone was reveling, He could even hear Rukawa's relieved sigh, which made the ex-MVP twitch a brow, and the conceited Josei Basketball Team decided that it was okay to adjoin their lunch tables with theirs. It was supposed to foster camaraderie, the deputy captain reminded the team on their first day here, and when the first jewels of today's downpour scattered across the rooftop of the gymnasium,

"Too bad Tanuki's out of our option," Yufune frowned.

"Why not a sleepover?" Mikoshiba countered— ` ` ` ` ` ` ` ` ` ` ` "But they are sleeping over here."

A sweat dropped on their foreheads.

"You give that to me again and I'll give you fifty laps."

Silence.

"...your school's nice," Kogure started to speak as he gulped (a gallon of) water.

"Well," said the (stud) power forward, "...if it was nice I wouldn't go here just to practice. Agree on me boys," he said, glancing, earning nods, "...that freak Paz at math class gets me every time."

"Paz?" ` ` ` ` ` ` ` ` ` ` ` "He stares like a maniac."

"How do you know?" was Mitsui's sudden query,

"Well, he likes to think he's torturing us," ` ` ` ` ` ` ` ` ` ` "—it smells like rosebuds," said a distracted Yufune, "—wait, it's... it's Mitsui-san! Not you of course—"

The seniors looked at each other, shuddering (yet again).

"A girl Mitsui?" ` ` ` ` ` ` ` ` ` ` ` "Does she also have fake teeth?" joshed Ryota—

"I swear you dwarf..." ` ` ` ` ` ` ` ` ` ` ` "Stop it!"

Silence; it was Akagi. "Eat your meals Shohoku."

"What does a rosebud smell like?" asked Kuwata, "I mean, on a girl—"

"Do you even know what a rosebud is?" laughed a Josei member, earning a tick in the forehead—

"Duh. It's a bud. From a rose." ` ` ` ` ` ` ` ` ` ` ` "I don't know," butted the brown-eyed,

"I thought it was a bud on its own. Like cherry. What do you think, Akagi?"

He ate his last piece of meat. "I think I'm bored as hell."

"Well, sleepover's not gonna do it. We go to our homes."

The rains subsided; the other team's distractions, too, seemed to have faded away as they lounged by the other side of the gymnasium, since by some miraculous architecture and engineering it was bordered to the pantry (which made the rosebud odor) as they were, they have blushingly expressed, hunting for the best Shizuokan with jet-black hair, cool, flowing eminence of some sort that it was already ten minutes before it strikes one in the afternoon that they have taken sight of such marvel. These brazen youngsters would therefore be honorable, gallant knights in shining armor looking for the only damsel in distress, and even Yasuda—the meek benchwarmer—would tiptoe away, as Ishii and Sasaoka did a couple of minutes ago (excusing themselves to the bathroom), and they become thick as thieves. It came to a bad end for them, eventually—

"I know!" yelled Ayako, enthusiastic—

"Aya-chan!"

"What do you say guys we go truth or dare before curfew?"

"Aya-chan! I love that game!" ` ` ` ` ` ` ` ` ` ` ` "No you don't—"

"Sounds good to me," agreed Kuwata.

"Let's do it. That includes you, Rukawa-kun—" ` ` ` ` ` ` ` ` ` ` He was snoring.

"I don't...uh, well," Kogure was (surely) flustered, "Won't it sound like a roast? We might regret saying things—"

Mitsui's pale, pale red cheeks agreed, "He's right."

"Oh come on, Mitsui-sempai! You're the adventurous, right?" Kakuta rebutted (probably eager for more 'adventures').

He snorted. Ayako grinned—"What's up with you seniors? Pussies are you, huh?"

Silence.

"And where the hell did you learn that word?" Akagi's fingers crackled as he prepared his knuckles—

"Oh come on, Akagi-sempai—I'm a girl, I'm allowed to be vulgar."

"A...Aya—Aya-chan..." the other's face was beet red— ` ` ` ` ` ` ` ` ` ` "I'll start later, yeah? To break the ice."

"No—" persisted the captain.

She pointed her finger, as if to nag with a whisper. "Pussy one, two, three. Three wet pussies."

Silence.

Kogure waved, "You'll start, right?"

And so they rest their case.

Two hours have passed and the unabashed sun have cracked the clouds into a cirrus, and they were, as the routine was earlier that morning, lining up to practice three-point shots with the team's ace no less, guiding them, foot-faulting them if the front sole of their sneakers cross the line. He was almost to the point of nagging, serious and without the least of embarrassment, and more than this display of sincerity (and authority) for the sport was a sense of belonging for him. Kogure can pretty much vouch for that. Rukawa dabbles with two hands, dribbling thrice, running sideways to get to the spot, stopping only to move around, and with sticky arms jumped with such an ease that the ball flung effortlessly unto the ring, and the looping sound of the ball against the ring merited him whistles from the other team.

_Fifty sixth hour. Pent up feelings, unaware, unexpected, with clammy thighs and armpits no less—_

and more than this impending misfortune that the universe would soon provide them within two minutes was an awkwardness that he would've probably felt otherwise if he didn't confess. Within three days, more than two years of curiosity and appeal to this blue-eyed boy have been revealed almost like divine illumination, and now that they reached levels beyond mutuality, he wondered how fast would everything turn around if they decided to arrive at the highest of heights—two hours, perhaps? But would it even suffice that such mutuality could be proof for something more than a feeling of belongingness, familiarity—or, dare he say it—happiness? Riyota missed, and filed up again; the blue-eyed threw the ball at him, nodding, as if signaling him to dabble himself,

as the other wasn't saying anything, unlike how he harassed his teammates before, and whether it was this immediate feeling of favoritism, or coyness, that made him definitely shoot the moon with his warm smile—

he ran for line, steadying himself, re-tracing what it felt like to shoot that three points he made against Ryonan. He jumped, still cold-ridden, pitching the ball into a curved projection. It rebounded by the leathered ring, rolling, and finally dropping down for another three points.

"Good job," smiled the man, scratching his scar.

"Thanks,"

And when they finally retired in the afternoon, they further lined up (again) to use the bathroom lockers. Josei members were obviously given unprecedented and first access to it, and the Shohoku members sat by the benches, waiting for them. It's almost four thirty in the afternoon, Kogure estimated, and he, too, calculated that his cold was beginning to show signs of degeneration, although the crackled skin on his back (due to sunburn yesterday) could probably use a bottle or two of aloe as they were itching him, more so when mingled with sweat. It started to rain again, and though his muggy skin could get accustomed to the rain's cool mists, there he was walking for the entrance door, finally opening a part of it, and stared at it benevolently.

This was going to be a mistake, he thought.

"Daydreaming?"

"No," he smiled. ` ` ` ` ` ` ` ` ` ` ` "What's up then?"

"My back itches—" and suddenly fingers started to tap on his back, firstly patting the wet shirt after which the nails gently grazed the shirt under his prickly skin, "—you don't have to do that."

"I want to," he whispered. "This ain't a blow or something anyway."

The brown-eyed mustered enough posture to stand straight, trying to be aloof and unflustered. "Besides," the other continued, "...it's one thousand percent unlikely that I'll do it."

"Your crass words make you disempowered,"

"And I don't even know what it means."

The rain soon began to become another summer storm, and Kogure had to shrink behind the double-doors and slightly move the knob and save himself from another cold. At its most isolated angle, he can see the faintest orange hues of the sun, as if fighting away against the rain, while the vertical swallowed the beams into grayness, and beneath those ashen clouds he could make out the two green tea hills overhanging Mt. Fuji, in its icy glory, and the raindrops started to move in uneven directions so that Mitsui would also stand back from the doors, behind the vice-captain, finally letting go of his back—

"Much better?"

"Yeah. Thanks—" ` ` ` ` ` ` ` ` ` ` ` "Your skin cracked. You need to peel them off."

"They'll peel off by themselves."

A long fall of silence.

The rain slid westward, and they can feel the cool wind on their faces, towards the Izu district, and when they both stared at the quay some kilometers away from where they were the yachts and boats were surely skidding gently against the airstreams, and the earthy waft, the dancing withered leaves, the dirty-cream twigs, the lucid jewels of the rain—they were moving ever so smoothly despite the audacious downpour. The waters have started to travel towards them when the gutter overflowed, and so they finally close the doors. They both flustered; unconscious, unaware.

This feeling of serenity between them felt unbelievably, regrettably and repulsively... nice. This bent of a person before Mitsui was unfortunately an oeuvre, while for Kogure, this confused hegemony-incarnate was nothing characterless. The feeling was intriguing to say the least; it was new but not uptight. It was symbolic without being complicated; it seized a steadfast, adoring wisdom that was neither practical nor ideal, but simply what it is.

The team decided to take a bus towards the Izu district after they bid send-offs to the Josei members, wherefore the gym was all theirs to sully with mattresses. Although the sun has already released its final ginger beams and the moonless skies have taken over (which was uncanny for a summer day), it was still thirty minutes short before their dinner schedule, and Akagi was more than adamant, if not obsessed, to adherence and discipline. He knew all-too-well what delightful horrors await them, i.e. a thousand soba noodles, bath houses, sencha teas and another thousand tropical beauties, so it wasn't that difficult for his subordinates to understand why he was tugging everyone towards a decent sushi bar. The afternoon was cleared away with a dewy night—

"Why can't we go to that place?" Kakuta whispered questioningly, as if an introspection.

"—because Mitsui-kun's in there," he looked to him straight away—"...not you, of course."

"The rosebud girl?" Yasuda was blushing as his sushi rice scattered on the table.

"Come to think of it," Kogure thought aloud, but then his toes were starting to get thumped by an unknown force underneath the table. "—never mind."

"What is it, Kogure-sempai?" ` ` ` ` ` ` ` ` ` ` "Nah... haha! Hahahaha!"

His own sushi rice scattered on the table.

"You went in here, you two, yeah, sempais?"

"Yeah Ishii, so what?" ` ` ` ` ` ` ` ` ` ` "I kind of like it here, there's good food."

"I bet it's not food what you're thinking of," Ryota snickered—

"You're gross!" ` ` ` ` ` ` ` ` ` ` "Aya-chan! I'm sorry..."

"Yufune-san told me she's here though," the meek Sasaoka muttered, to their surprise. "If we can only... smell her..."

Tick.

"Rosebuds aren't supposed to smell." It was Akagi.

Tick.

"Well, that's true—" joined Kogure, "You need ten thousand petals to have one drop of oil, so presumably she must be sleeping in them to smell like it."

Tick.

"Amazing! How do you know that, Kogure-sempai?"

Tick.

"Goddamn it!" It was Mitsui. "Kogure met the girl, alright? He went there for goddamn's sake," he munched away his share of sushi, the sound of his chopsticks deafening them "...then this girl, whoever she is, stuck a note for him. She likes him! Could you believe that?"

Silence.

"So?" It was Rukawa.

"You twat freshie..." his chopsticks broke. ` ` ` ` ` ` ` ` ` ` ` ` "Aha... haha, no need to get wild... hahaha!"

A long fall of silence.

"Yata! Amazing Kogure-sempai!"

Almost everyone seemed to have reveled in this new knowledge, probably perhaps it was a rule of some sort that a senior their age gets past his adolescence, and more so with the brooding Kogure-sempai. The feeling for them, it seemed, was of maturity, and only if this wisdom could be finally applied can it be called experience. Kuwata, of course, could only gripe for being outdone by the vice-captain; Ishii can at last share with the brown-eyed the porn magazine Mitsui gave him three days ago, and Ryota will definitely grumble since luck has turned away from him (again). Kogure tried to suppress a triumphant smile; how rare was it for him to delight at their approving declarations? Almost none at all you outwardly meek, attention seeker!

"Ne, it wasn't like that at all, ne, Mitsui? Tell them the story..."

"—I gotta get the watch back,"

and he scuttled off, dumbfounding everyone.

He left the restaurant bathed in oppressive sweat at his nape, and when the breeze suddenly crept to his body his cheeks caught fire like burnt wood. At the right end he saw the lighted edges of the portable ramen house that supposedly housed the rosebud girl (with his name, of all names), and it must've glowed like a beckoning lighthouse—for quite a time his eyes stared at it long enough, the shoji-styled lamps in there must've been glowing intensely there, because his eyes can't help but throw fiery looks. He went to the opposite side. Mitsui might have been the knight in shining armor, a strength of a character indeed, but when he decided to go to the bent (idiom) pathway, as grueling and tongue-tied as the choice was, he also decided to relinquish everything—and though it wasn't a necessity, he chose so as it so befitted the decision. But these dunces just have to rub it in!

He strolled with his hands on his pockets.

But for all its worth, he should be enthusiastic. Three days ago he would've congratulated him, advised him what flowers to send; sakura, momo, willow, tsutsuji, camellia, quince—even rosebuds, and then he would share his collection of porn magazines, he would've helped him do letters, in scented parchment, advise him to send Hakone parquetry or even a souvenir from Odowara museum. The rest of the courting stuff—the kiss, dates, festivals, movies, introduction to parents—Kogure would just have to make a timetable. These are all but garbage of time now.

Kogure had already been looking for him by this time.

People are familiar who reek of these thoughts: sociopaths, disappointments, mongoloids, schizoids, dunces, nut cases, aphrodisiacs, or people with immoderate captivation. They withdraw to other places, alone preferably, where they converse with their own thoughts. Others, who could be said to be more benevolent and unbiased, would coax the other into thinking and feeling otherwise—so as to foster intimacy; they argue, they could even argue at the top of their lungs. They could also compromise, or break negotiations down; their thoughts are divine illuminations. They do these carousing and arguing only to be aware of each other—

and their situation is no less unfamiliar. There wasn't any notion of compromise for Mitsui, and Kogure doesn't have anything to retort it with; they don't have anywhere to withdraw to, nor could they wait for a miraculous divine illumination. They could only draw to each other's middle grounds, only because the pawn shop manager has been staring at them scandalously.

"I lost the bet, yeah? I'll pay for the watch—" he scratched his head.

"That's not how it's supposed to be," Kogure takes out his ATM card, shaking his head, motioning the blue-eyed to come with him withdraw some money. "You're supposed to pay for the tab."

"—but that was my watch!" he blushed.

"But you lost!"

Silence.

"Are you gonna trade it back or what? You lovebirds do know what a quarrel is," the manager narrowed her eyes, yawning. They both looked at her.

"But you oh so received my limbs like some religious scripture," Mitsui sarcastically grinned, staring at the ATM card. "You should've... ah," he said, taking out his wallet, "...never mind."

"You're being stubborn."

Silence.

"I..." the blue-eyed whispered, "...I don't wanna go there," he said twice when the other requested to repeat it. Kogure, on the other hand, no longer aware of the manager, or the world in general—he basked in this new-found knowledge and found it... smugly... nice. Even nicer than the team's congratulations. He smiled wide-eyed, like a dunce, perplexing Mitsui.

"What?" was the appropriate thing for the blue-eyed to ask.

"Nothing," he said; he found himself stuttering the word. He found himself licentious as ever as the most adored human being in the world. "I'll go to a teller first. Wanna?"

"Let's go."

And immediately, all these new moods, reactions, perspective—all these would explode into an anti-cathartic silence saturated in seemingly cheesy, over-sentimental walking movements (the people of Japan weren't aware of this). When they have finally decided to return to the sushi restaurant, they stared blankly towards the benches as they realized that their teammates already left them (it took them that long). They sat there for awhile, not saying anything—for fear of ruining this intriguing, feathery moment, for several minutes probably, taut and unaware, looking at the sloppily written note from Ryota (be back before curfew). And as they left the restaurant for the school, they suddenly quivered at the sight of the ramen girl (nonetheless anonymous) before them—her dainty figure, gracefully tucking all the raw ramen noodles by the basket. She blushed at the sight of Kogure, and the latter began to become rigid; the blue-eyed, of course, could only twitch an eyebrow (here it goes again, he thought).

Irrelevantly, she really did smell like rosebuds; the scent was so pungent it almost felt like an impending doom.

* * *

_tbc._


	6. Day Three and a Half

The night cracked against their earshot; thoughts fractured, gashed, wrenched.

"Wha—what are you doing here, Kogure-san?"

He laughed scratching his head. "I don't know myself..."

"We're on our way to Josei," said Mitsui. ` ` ` ` ` ` ` ` ` ` "Ah, that school—"

"What do you mean by _that_?"

She smiled, percolating her scent even more as both of them trickled their sour sweat.

"Nothing, it's... Kogure-san, won't you be dropping by the ramen house tonight?" ` ` ` ` ` ` ` ` ` ` ` Mitsui clutched the deputy's arm, "I said," he coughed (emphasis), "We're off to _that_ place."

"Oh," she seemed downcast— ` ` ` ` ` ` ` ` ` ` ` "We'll drop by, okay," Kogure laughed awkwardly, trying to outdo the pressure beckoning him at the other end of the street.

A loud clout in the head snapped the dreamy, fragrant hypnoses from the girl.

"What was that for?" exclaimed the brown-eyed— ` ` ` ` ` ` ` ` ` ` ` "You're an idiot!"

"I believe that is a powerful word to say," responded the girl, and her whiff traveled to safeguard his knight in shining armor as if visible to the blue-eyed's eyes.

"Clouting him to his senses is less a crime than that Hansen Camp rape," he narrowed his eyes at her; hopefully the perspiration on his neck would give off the same whiff to Kogure.

She stared back at him.

"Say," he continued, "...I'll keep on doing this," he pointed to his tapered eyes, "...and if you can still show your wisdom for Moral Realism I will gladly bring this idiot to you."

The clouds dispersed into a lucent blueness. The Izu district became electric, as if the earth shook; Kogure, crammed between the two, trembled and crawled downwards for safety, his arm still clung tightly on Mitsui's grip.

Silence—

"Does anything else besides sex interest you?"

More silence—

"You're not going to break me down," calmly retorted the girl.

"You're a wet pussy—" ` ` ` ` ` ` ` ` ` ` ` She gulped—"…everyone else is."

"Do you know how babies are made?"

"...yes,"

"Well," he sighed sharply, "...you must've watched one of your dad's videos!"

A tear welled up on her right eye—

"You dirty girl!"

Another one on her left eye—

Kogure fainted; his arm hung loosely against his grip— ` ` ` ` ` ` ` ` ` ` ` "You're gonna break his arm!" He shuffled his arm, as if dragging Kogure's. "You moralist liar! Wait... my god you got jagged teeth!" He squeaked, and by the time she checked on her pristine face by brushing her black her up, the two Shohoku seniors were nowhere in sight. And with no one else at sight, she finally caved in and spent thirty minutes kneeling and releasing all pent up frustrations with muffled cries.

Kogure awoke at the sound of buzzing on his ears, and the tickling breaths on his face have almost made him burst into laughter if it were not for remembering how Mitsui (the boy) was capable of such crassness that it, too, made him mentally clouted to his senses; his teammates moved backwards, caught unaware—candles were lit around them as if prosecution against him was set, and at the foreground of his sight was the grinning Ayako. She shook her head and made a nagging hiss—as if it was his fault to begin with! He shifted his eyes to look for the blue-eyed scoundrel of a culprit, and when Ayako helped him up to his feet he realized that she was just doing so to set him up on the northeast side of the self-proclaimed truth circle and finally start the game. "I honestly thought you're gonna get over this," he sighed; Takenori is nowhere to be found.

"I'm sorry to surprise," she said, still grinning as she took the flash light out, training it at her chin. "But I'm so eager I can't wait to start."

"That's not spooky at all—" said Kuwata. ` ` ` ` ` ` ` ` ` ` ` "It's not ghost hunting," agreed Kakuta.

"Where's Akagi?"

"He's miraculously talking to his parents right now," answered the manageress.

"—where do you buy those magazines, Mitsui-san?" Ishii was the first to initiate.

"What magazines?" ` ` ` ` ` ` ` ` ` ` ` "The one you gave me,"

"I stashed it at Akagi's house—"

They flabbergasted in unison.

"No. I bought it just any guy would—' ` ` ` ` ` ` ` ` ` ` ` "...could... could you perhaps... perhaps—"

The blue-haired's eyes moved past Kogure's when he declined. "Stop acting like a pussy and buy one yourself. It's a step to manhood."

They staggered with sharp sighs again.

A tick in the forehead was forming in Rukawa's droopy eyes—

"Anyway—" the flushed manageress waved her hand. "Who's up for some lovey-dovey questions?"

"Why do you shun girls away?" Kakuta asked the ace rookie, and was replied with snore. "Never mind."

"Oh, I still like that Mitsui-kun," Ishii clasped his hands, praying— ` ` ` ` ` ` ` ` ` ` ` "Well, she doesn't."

"She's head over heels to that deaf-mute," he continued, pointing to the listening Kogure.

Silence.

"What?" ` ` ` ` ` ` ` ` ` ` ` ` ` "What's it like?"

"What is, Ishii?"

"Liked by a pretty, refined girl?"

He thought for awhile— "Same as any guy liking me."

Prodding silence.

"What?" he stared at them; Mitsui covered his face to stop laughing.

"You meant to say _same as any guy would feel_, right?"

"What? Oh, yeah, yeah... hahahahaha!"

"But do you like her?" ` ` ` ` ` ` ` ` ` ` "Who?"

"You know I heard there were real ghosts in this gym," spoke Mitsui. "Why don't we find them?"

"You're corny. So," she motioned to Kogure, "...do you like her?"

"Well, Ishii can have her."

"That's so gross! You're speaking as if she's some food or something—"

"No, I didn't mean—" ` ` ` ` ` ` ` ` ` ` "Do you have someone in mind then?" she cut his denial speech short, astounding the vice-captain.

"What? Someone?" ` ` ` ` ` ` ` ` ` ` "Oh yes he does, Ayako-san!" Yasuda quickly mutters, "...he's quivering his lips like he's going to say her name!"

Nudging chants beckoned the captain to the circle.

"—what's all this racket?"

"He's going to say her name!" they shouted, waking Rukawa.

Akagi stared at the pleading Kogure, "Don't you have a call or something?"

"It can wait," he grinned.

Mitsui stared, motionless, gulping.

"Fine!"

The stillness lingered for minutes before he started speaking. "Okay, okay. I met this person some time ago—"

"Ooh..."

"After practice. You know, all that heavy breathing and sprinting, then this person comes up to me, losers are supposed to mop after practice—"

"She's from the basketball team!" they chanted yet again—

"It's Ayako-san!"

"No—this was really, really some time ago."

More silence.

"So this person handed me this mop, told me, if you're too tired ask the janitor. Her name was Mitsuko. That's what I did, so I went to the nearest one with mop, asked where the janitor was—kinda dumb logic... and then this person asked me if I was the assistant janitor—"

Hushed snickers were heard.

"Of course I said no, and I said I lost in the practice match so I have the mop and I'm too tired to do it, this is back where I'm as skinny as... Yasuda, you can really tell I'm as weak as... Ishii—"

"No fair!"

"—and I was asked why I lost, so I asked back, why do you wanna know. And then I noticed this person was limply like me, and I mocked that s-he's in the same position as I am, and I was asked what I'd do if I won the practice match instead, and I said, I don't know, probably go straight home, and then I said I was just some blocks away since I was asked, and then—I... I gave my full name just like that—"

"I'm not virgin anymore."

More silence—it was Mitsui who spoke.

"Duh!"

"I learned how to do it from my dad's videos."

"Nasty!"

"It was so good I had to make schedules for it."

Kogure stared at a blank blue-eyed face. Akagi took long enough for him to comprehend the crisis. What a slip up, really!

"I go to this place since then, down by Kamakura just a station away. It's like the control center of the league of sexual addicts—" ` ` ` ` ` ` ` ` ` ` ` Another sharp flabbergasted sighs—

"The headquarters of that lovely Mitsuko, mind you," he snickered, "another un-virgin, like me. We're all gobblers eatin you-know-what like it was transcendental whatchamacallit. What's weird is, I think she's lesbie or sumthin—" One of the candles released its last light as a visible waxy smoke traveled upwards; the door opened as if a gushing wind from a summer storm broke the locks.

"Hey where are you going?" the three-point shooter shouted like a command.

"I'm going out of my mind!"

And so the double doors finally shut; everyone settled to hunt ghosts instead.

It was past his team's curfew. Earthy breeze swept Kogure's face; the rustling of the oak tree leaves penetrated the shuffling sounds of his sleeves against his palms—it felt neither cold nor warm, not because of the chilly air or with the heated sense of consciousness, alone in the school park that seemed dark, eclectic, stark, surprisingly electric. He held back for awhile and decided to cross his thighs with desolated arms, and in the afterglow of moonbeams his radiant glasses fell off from his hold and he dug his head on his arms—it still felt neither cold nor warm. Under the bleakest sight, he tried to widen his eyes as if trying to shed light into the space he sieved between his head and legs and arms, and the dusts settled to his trousers.

All these trivial moving of dirt and rustling of leaves seemed more important than winning the Inter High right now, and perhaps he could go back to his room and crawl up like a sleeping figure and most definitely try to imagine what it would've been like if his tongue didn't roll a word at all, and more than this daydreaming he found himself sighing with heavy breaths. In the depths of this place, which seemed to transform into a desolate one during nighttime, he finally took one last breath before he stares directly into Mitsui's eyes. He averted his gaze, slowly, faintly; the unseen horizon between Mt. Fuji and the firmament was as picturesque as the mystic universe. With one last glance, he prepared to leave.

_Wait._

"This is not gonna work, Mitsui."

"Is there any reason why you're telling me all these now?"

His words were resolute; defined, definite, distinct.

"I'm a bedeviled, deceptive pacifist who likes to sleep with boys."

"—as long as you don't have hairs on your ass—"

"That's exactly what I mean!" ` ` ` ` ` ` ` ` ` ` ` ` "What?"

"You're so crass! You're so raw... so... straight..."

Silence. A dark blanket pressed against his body, coming down from his shoulders with two callous hands. It still felt neither cold nor warm. He tilted to gaze at the moving Mitsui, sitting beside him next.

The brown-eyed started. "And it's weird you're putting up with all these. I overreact and you'll sit in the corner. Then you'd do the same to me."

"We still have options to consider."

He scoffed. "Yeah. Lynching or being a monk. Choice is we'll part when we're in a pinch."

"We can go to Tokyo."

"But they live so fast there."

"Then we'll keep up. Live fast or die."

Silence.

"I still remember that mopping incident," Mitsui started, forming a bitter smile.

"What night, hmm?"

"...and what do you think about me? You think we're not in the same predicament here?" Kogure does not reply, for after all they shared an impending doom in which no virtue was defense, for they were fighting against themselves, against their own selves whom they wanted to be and whom they wanted to have everything.

By this time they started to withdraw themselves into the abyss and space of the blanket Kogure shared with the blue-eyed, for the latter was getting colder at each passing breeze. No longer distracted by anyone or anything for that matter, Kogure basked in this solitary existence in which he hardly breathes, that sour, musky sweat rolling down the other's neck, in which his head could barely comprehend this dualism between giving up and desiring, and all at once this warring frustration and urgency would flow into spontaneous words that are not even tantamount to what he's trying to resolve with furrowed eyebrows right now. His body quivered, and Mitsui shot him a quizzical look.

"Look, the moon... eh, you got wrinkles on your forehead."

"That's what you get from thinking too much."

And when he finally looked up to gaze at the crescent moon the earth started to feel cold, as if saturated by a remedied malady and the moonbeams descended upon them, softly, faintly, and the dusts sprouted and danced with them like budding sunlight, shooting his face warm. "You do realize..." whispered Mitsui, "...you do realize that I'll cling on no matter what."

"Why?"

"It's nicer."

"With that voice you make me look very cruel!"

The stillness filled them like gushing waters. The stars started to appear and the oak tree motioned its branches to a halt, and the only noise their ears could make out were the distant crickets and the groaning protests from their teammates at the other end of the building—their flashlights flickered at each second like fireflies. Mitsui looked at him with a plaster of smile, and he's suddenly switching glances from side to side before their pulses quicken when he rested his arm to Kogure's waist, and as a precursor the latter laid his head on Mitsui's shoulder, both of them confined by the dark shadows of the tree, enjoying the silence like sprouting spring, affirming that where they are and what they've done did exist, as these were something sleazy, something inching past the edges of their breath, something undeniably right. On this side of Josei High School, they left the place with a cold, biting breeze and warm arms and unreserved musk from Mitsui's body—these are distractions Kogure can put up with for the rest of his life.

"Oi Mitsui..." he said with closed eyes, the arm on his waist tightening; he nestled his head closer to him.

"Yeah?"

"This has been really edifying."

"Huh?"

And after long, smiling sigh, "What a long night..."

* * *

_tbc._


	7. Day Four

The sun dawned upon their sleepless bodies which sat down the gymnasium floors. They have been staring blankly at the window panes they've mistaken as the floorboards due to their gleaming light, and it wasn't exactly from last night's escapades did their eyes almost gouge themselves out of their sockets. Since the Shohoku basketball team sans Kogure and Mitsui (who physically cajoled each other by the oak trees outside the gymnasium) were outside searching for unsearchable existences which supposedly roamed the world during midnights, a group of real, bona fide opportunists began scouring their belongings—as if there were good stuff to steal!

Kakuta and Ishii lost their porn magazines, which just demonstrated the susceptibility of these thieves, but more so with the senior and the freshman; Miyagi doesn't have anything to begin with, but he did lose his jersey, so did the captain (who was becoming more famous now that the Shizuoka district knew the team was having a playoff with Josei) and, of course, the deadpan, blue-eyed Rukawa, whose eyes can never tell if he cared at all, or if he feigned those insomniac eyes. He also lost his walkman, the prize of them all.

Their stomachs roared like the orchestra; their eyes wringed a bit more. "We're never gonna win today," whispers the freshmen, and Akagi could only sigh in agreement.

For the two lovebirds, all these bereavements were a relief. Last night's carousing down by the old trees weren't exactly the right place to do so; they almost thrived like sprouting oak seedlings as the earth warmed with their limbs—but whoever survives in a public display of unusual liaison can survive being intimate at a public park, _or the school_, and theirs was obviously vulnerable and objectionably constituted. The team knew they were friends since their first year in school, and they could wonder for days on end whether the seemingly tough blue-haired Mitsui was the _seme_ or even doubt they manage to do _that_ at all, or even digest the fact they are, as they have sworn secretly, _together_. And in the course of this haunting forecast, they will be stoned to death and most probably denied public accommodations, like what Kogure read in the newspaper last time: OCCUR still fighting lawsuit against Tokyo Prefecture. He can almost read his name between the lines.

As they clandestinely held hands together while the rest of the team ogled further, they both knew they could only do as much as this, to be content as ticks leeching each other's palms and living off a wink, or a glance, to require the least of time—their souls ought not to be starved with security and warmth or whatever esteem they need; all these, they've agreed, were dispensable for now.

"Well," the captain finally spoke, stretching his legs. "It's a mess, but we're gonna get through it. We have a match after lunch, so we need to beef ourselves up."

"With what?" groaned Miyagi, "...fill our bellies with water?"

"You're talking like you're not a Shohoku member!" Ayako finally stood up—

"Aya-chan!" ` ` ` ` ` ` ` ` ` ` ` "Fight fight Shohoku! What do you need?"

"...fill our bellies?" answered Kakuta. ` ` ` ` ` ` ` ` ` ` ` ` "You fatty! Get your ass up and exercise!"

"—that was mean," he replied. ` ` ` ` ` ` ` ` ` ` ` "Not if you're a fighter!"

"Whoever doesn't get up and practice will mop the floors tomorrow until the end of winter tournament!" commands the captain. This directive soon proved adequate for them to lethargically walk for the lockers and start preparing breakfast by filling their coolers and bottles with tap water.

By nine in the morning they have completely understood their predicament—there was not an edible thing left in their bags, no proper jerseys, no music, no porn magazines, no enthusiasm. They recognized this by uniquely holding their tears back for they knew they will mop the floors until the winter tournament if they show any sign of degenerative attitude, and what Akagi could gather was the knowledge that Kogure—the seemingly nonchalant deputy captain—was just given an ATM card in preparation for college. The owner did not hesitate.

The annuity was just enough for food and a phone call to coach Anzai concerning their recklessness. Kogure's obligation to the team was so far removed from the actual responsibility of a vice captain, however, as this was the perfect excuse to wander the Izu district with his newly-found persona grata: the lovable blue-eyed fault that is Mitsui Hisashi.

The sun has not fully risen in the vertical when they reached the Izu district although summertime was just in the middle of bloom; at two and a half hours before noon the steaming bathhouses beckoned their unusually heat-ridden bodies, trying to discard their roaring stomachs. Dried sencha leaves have begun to smell malodorous as the barbequed fish and sushi become tasteless, and so did the energy drinks become brewed poison—they've lost any sense of time, robbing their teammates the needed stamina for the practice match (their bodies will be populated by lethargy, pressing upon them inch by inch until the clock at the gym ticked noontime).

What was clear here, on the other hand, is that their seclusion in the backdrop of cicadas and plums and dry cherry blossoms was something sleazy, something inching past the edges of their breaths, something undeniably right. They left the world with the adjoining streets of Naka-Izu and Katsura River, and there was nothing else but the sound of peacefully streaming waters against smooth rocks, the sound of faceless crowd and the sound of their empty stomachs (this, ironically, was no bother) as they leaned close to each other like the densely knitted bathhouses and began to wonder where this escapade will go further. And whether they left the world is an abstract circumstance that the world, conversely, could care less about, as it was, after all, a sworn secret—and nor will it be ever concrete here, they figured.

"So how does _this_ work?" Mitsui was playing around the edges of his shirt as he stares curiously but nonchalantly.

"I..." the blushing face of Kogure stuttered— ` ` ` ` ` ` ` ` ` ` ` ` "Come on, you must've known how to do this,"

"I said I don't know!" he finally pulled himself apart, trying to retain what's left of his self-esteem.

"I'll spread my body here—" he said, as if experimenting, feeling the soft tatami mats with his limbs—

"Woah, a virg—" ` ` ` ` ` ` ` ` ` ` "Oh please, let's stop this—" ` ` ` ` ` ` ` ` ` ` ` "—will your groping count?"

—and a long fall of silence.

He stared at him, anxiously, nervously; the blue-eyed was beginning to be a mixture of sencha and perspiration, of sun-baked skin and fresh bath water, of ramen noodles and cherry blossoms, of dried fish and steam. The imaginations were infinite, only to disperse with a fleeting but grave sense of embarrassment; he began to slowly crawl towards him like a child, meek, timid, diffident. As his nose bled from all the fusion of olfaction and thoughts he tried to unwind the flagrant images one by one, sorting them by familiarity; by curiosity, experimentation, by embarrassment, fear, by caution, meticulousness, by the desire to appease.

His hands travel his leg pants; the blue-eyed gulped in the touch, and he closed his eyes in turn, anxious, nervous. As a self-professed specialist in the art of naked bodies, his perception was more or less anticipating—

but he gulped this time around; this was growing harrowing for him, it must've belonged into another nauseating order, and this accidence in his mind's eye—groping, casting about, grabbling, tickling, palpating—were all too unfamiliar for him.

Kogure hesitated, and finally a knock on the door saved them from all future discomfiture.

At eleven thirty in the morning, they were able to go back to Josei High School and found the team already having the practice match. Mikoshiba was dribbling the ball and running towards the ring as the rest of the team tried keeping up with his speed, and when Akagi managed to jump high enough to block, the other captain has passed ball to the power forward, earning their team two points for a lay-up. They both stood silent and guilty against the shadow of the gym's double-doors, and with Ayako noticing them, they, too, realized that all the extravagant provisions they bought will be wasted away.

"We are so gonna lose," she says this while narrowing her eyes.

"Well," the ex-MVP mutters, changing clothes, "...there's a time when one fights and one accepts loss."

"Don't be an idiot now, Mitsui-sempai." ` ` ` ` ` ` ` ` ` ` ` "I'll replace Ishii, he looks so lost,"

"You do that, Megane-sempai. These losers knew we're down and exploited it! Can't you believe that?"

"It's called strategy, Ayako—" Mitsui shouts, whistling, replacing Kakuta. Mikoshiba being Josei's basketball club captain was no oversight for their coach; he guarded Rukawa as if to steal the ball at the same time, and the ball dug into his nails he secured it with a fast break with Yufune, whose three point shooting ability resembled Jin's in accuracy. He scored several; they mastered fast break and three point shooting, and Shohoku, left with broken pride, decided to show their ultimate ability—rough, bustling style.

Their team excelled at being well-coordinated hooligans, each member carrying a variety of arsenal on the arena. Ryota's speed made fast breaks and steals convenient for his teammates; Akagi's height and raw power, combined with vast knowledge, made him a one-man team, though this can be said for Rukawa, too, since teams don't exist for him, and so the counter for this introverted style of play was to be offensive, defensive and swift. He scored with a lay-up when Kogure passed the ball to him.

The combination of these styles of play, however, could only thrive with well-nourished members, with nothing to intimidate them, nothing to have their limbs trying hard to run past their opponents, nothing to have them struggle. The other team was cheeky enough to capitalize on this little detail, and it wasn't surprising for Ayako to suspect that these exploiters were, in fact, those scouring mongrels. After all, they led the practice match with one win the other day. Who else had the gym's keys? When the third half ended, Shohoku was 20 points behind. The team savored sushis, power drinks and instant noodles at their benches, but when the rest of these famished, poverty-stricken youngsters proceeded to bow their heads in gratitude, the two starter members were already out of sight.

The two youths had much to learn, they vetoed. When the clamoring footsteps outside the adjoined lockers have faded, after the sun reclined to rest behind those oak trees outside, when finally the shade veiled their nearly exhausted bodies by the showers, they decided to resume their _experiment_. They both stood with arms stretched out as if to conquer, and yet with stifled, misty breaths they did not stir any presentiment, any new impressions or hypotheses to further their uncanny, sensual epistemology. They did hope of smelling more than just sweat, but they soon realized that only these beads of water will whiff out for infinity, unless scents like oak, sore muscles and earth, or perfume, added up to this solitary smell.

They parted when knocking sounds bellowed at their earshot. It must've been Yufune, Kogure told the blue-eyed, because he thought he heard him complain about a bad stomach. When Kogure opened the door, a suspicious eye prodded his glass-veiled eyes.

"Why is this door locked?"

"Huh?" Kogure puzzlingly stared at the knob; feigning was his best ability. "This wasn't locked when I opened it."

"Apparently it is," walked Yufune, past him, and he started to open a cubicle. "Who's there?"

"Hey man, mind your farts, will 'ya? I'm taking a shower," vaguely shouted the blue-eyed, and when the Josei vice-captain looked towards the brown-eyed's direction he, too, was already out of sight. He opened the door, locking it.

"Mitsui-san, did you lock the door?" ` ` ` ` ` ` ` ` ` ` "What?"

The showers impeded his hearing, and he was left to share his thoughts to himself.

"Goddamn it I said don't fart!" shouted the three-point ace, still in the showers. Yufune was about to blush from embarrassment when Kogure flashed through his mind once more: something sleazy, something inching the edge of his mind, something undeniably amiss, hardly noticeable like an atom of thought, or a premonition. Why was the door locked? If Mitsui's distance from it would invalidate him as a suspect—and he doesn't believe in poltergeists—was Shohoku's vice captain foolish enough to lock the doors when he can just go about his business without doing it?

The sun towered up on his cubicle's upper window and his figure cast a shadow. He backed up against the flush tank, wrinkled his brow and re-organized his thoughts. The coincidence is just too delicate to be one, he concluded. When Mitsui finally got out of the showers Yufune was already washing his hands and wetting his hair at the same time. His silence extended beyond Mitsui's casual whistling, and the latter knew very well that his usually cheerful demeanor is lacking.

"I think Kogure-san... I think he was checking you out."

He stopped his mouth, gathered momentum and waited for the other's reaction.

Mitsui's body grew heavier at each passing second as the jewels trickled down his body. A catastrophe was beginning to brew with this little sentence the other had uttered, and any modesty or virtue was no defense or escape for it. He looked at the mirror; his pale body has began to slightly redden not from the hot sunbeams that reflected on the window but because this clever little guy started a premise that could downright lead to an explosive conclusion.

It became clear to him, therefore, to need some sort of casual distraction he can feed to this annoying, clever little guy. "What do you mean?"

"Well," the other started, "...you couldn't have possibly locked the door. And it was. And why would he? It's not like pissing's become as private as—you know what."

"Oh? But Mitsui's—" ` ` ` ` ` ` ` ` ` ` ` He stared— ` ` ` ` ` ` ` ` ` ` ` "No, the ramen girl—"

"Don't you know?" he continued, "...she's..." he hesitated, dreadful and annoyed at the very thought of it. "They've been at _it_ for three days now."

Yufune creased his brows. "No... no way!"

"Well," he coolly said, changing his clothes, "...he may be the nerdiest in the bunch but he's the sharpest knife, too. Really, really sharp—"

"—my... my soul mate! He stole my soul mate!"

A sweat rolled on Mitsui's forehead.

"I'm never gonna forgive him! I'll clobber him up in the game!"

He was true to his word. Kogure wasn't able to score anything by the last quarter, and despite Mitsui's help the deputy captain was not able to even hold the ball. And because the blue-haired was too distracted to hold his own defense, he, too, wasn't able to flaunt those beautiful three points their team badly needed. Rukawa's tenacity earned them fifteen points, and the other two added with five point each—it could've been encouraging if their opponents weren't too enthusiastic about a triple defeat (apparently word gets around too fast for their team). The practice match ended with Shohoku's first defeat by ten points.

Eventually all intense emotions and rejoinders settled down; the grip of victory for Josei loosened all brewing malevolence and two Shohoku members began to feel safer about an hour ago. By two in the afternoon an envelope was sent to the school and was given to Akagi Takenori, and their relief furthered when provisions were lastly sent by coach Anzai—they've laid eyes on 300,000 yen that was deposited to Kogure's account, typed in bold print. A third would cover their ride back home, and the rest were their recompense for beating Josei High School at the first round. They shuddered in guilt afterwards, and went to the Izu district yet again to celebrate; Mikoshiba's team offered to accompany them—

—but something was amiss, Kogure thought. Practice games, practice courting, practice the _unusual_ movement of limbs; blushing, scandalous magazines and scandalous remarks by inexperienced yet tense, hapless boys, aloof dirty jokes—flirting, groping, scanty clothing on a sunned firmament. The way that all these seemingly infinite betrayals of reality and double imitations of it appear like distractions too far-fetched to believe. The way his teammates would prepare all belongings and stockpiling them one by one into the lockers looked too mechanical for him, the way the other team would help them (he's still doubting whether or not they were the actual culprits), the way it was too _normal_. He has gathered enough realities that could render his existence into oblivion—namely, his undying pursuit of love to this scarred youngster who's been helping mopping the floors together with the freshmen,

and his uneven tone of voice as he talks to his teammates, which, obviously, befits his stature, his so-called repute, his _experience_; all these were something away from sleaziness, away from the edges of his breaths, something undeniably right. And his lack of confidence to the lovable faults that betrayed all notions of love, sympathy, boyhood and adolescence (and mating, casually speaking) has made Kogure Kiminobu distrust himself. What high and mighty horse he's saddled in!

Mitsui walked towards him and thus realized the cold sweat on his nape and the numb sensation of having to regress into fear and caution. The glow of sunbeams made the senior's face paler, and it was, for Kogure, foreboding to say the least.

"What's wrong?" ` ` ` ` ` ` ` ` ` ` ` ` "Ha—hahaha! Nothing!"

"Whoever gave you that habit?" He gestured unbelievingly, and continued, "Anyway, we're all going to Izu, so I think that's the best time we can..." he hesitated before whispering, "...run away."

"We still have one match tomorrow, yeah?"

His mop fell. Mitsui's arm tightened around his neck as the other scuffled his hair (which was, for Kogure, as soothing as a caress). "You aphasic lad! Whatever happened to your brain?" he was laughing, and his palm began to crawl on his sides, prickling the brown-eyed.

The others thought no more than just clumsy bonding between the closest of friends; for both of them, however, it was a preparation for something more tickling later today.

"Since when did you _know_ that word?" ` ` ` ` ` ` ` ` ` ` ` ` "You're underestimating my memory, _Kimi-kun_,"

_One, two! One, two!_ The seven-lettered, whispered word bawled at his eardrums. It was hardly noticeable for the rest of the world, and perhaps for Mitsui, too; but this seemingly normal response was premonitory and outstandingly delicate, eluding his perception with such childish syntax for his name. But what meager act of speech could incomprehensibly devour even the blackest of void! How could one word erase ill prescience, Kogure thought; and with a swerve of hands Mitsui attested to his mythical ability to rest all doubting hearts at peace—

Kogure proceeded to the locker room to change clothes, his blue-eyed lovable fault in tow. They exchanged glances too cheerful for their own good, as they soon found out that that a 1994 summer issue of Barazoku (Rose Tribe Magazine) was interleaved between Kogure's jerseys and pants; a springing metallic sound echoed throughout the gym, and all sweat dropped into a sudden coldness—his breaths loudly muffled in each exhale,

—just when you think you're in control, he thought, just when all susceptibilities for mistrust have dissolved into thin clouds up the vertical right now, just when he thought he was on a roll, an un-cul de sac—who would've thought that blackmails and cheap, high school thrills really did exist? Mitsui Hisashi was busied changing clothes at the other end of the locker room. "Here it goes again," he muttered.

A memo was stuck at the last page of the magazine, which covered the face of a psychedelic, naked body of Yuchan—the Narcissus and Apollo of Japan—colored and drawn by a famous art connoisseur who used pennames to hide his own uncanny predilection to a thousand Yuchan's. Ah, he remembered reading that book under the sheets with the tiniest bit of light. _2PM. Izu's stone house. You know where it is._

Despite his wit, all that the brown-eyed could figure out were those three fragmented sentences and the weight that they bear, or otherwise the mass which could abandon himself, which could help Mitsui abandon him to boot. He required a forceful tap from Mitsui to send him back from confusion. He slightly opened his locker.

"Hmm... well, that's a good reference we can use later," ` ` ` ` ` ` ` ` ` ` ` "Stop kidding. Look at this note—"

"2PM. Izu's stone house—shit!" ` ` ` ` ` ` ` ` ` ` ` "I know!" ` ` ` ` ` ` ` ` ` ` ` "What do we do?"

"Do you want me to go?"

Mitsui hesitated for a moment. "You can. I know a trick to this. You go there and hide 'til he shows up. Then you scuttle and I will extort him back here."

"That's hardly pleasant—" ` ` ` ` ` ` ` ` ` ` ` "What time is it?"

"Huh? Almost one. We've got one more hour before we die, Mitsui."

"Don't be glum—" ` ` ` ` ` ` ` ` ` ` ` "It's probably Yufune."

"Maybe. I told him you were doing the ramen girl—" ` ` ` ` ` ` ` ` ` ` ` ` "What?"

"Believe me, that's the last thing I want to do."

Both of them sighed. Miyagi entered the lockers, and they had to part from Kogure's locker and mumbled in incomprehensible tones. "We can hear what he has to say," whispered Mitsui.

"And what are we gonna do?"

The other grinned. "What any motivated person would do. Punch a blue hole on his cheek!"

"This is hopeless. Sheer silliness. What do we have to lose?"

"You're right," he hesitated, "...and I don't wanna continue because it'll just get cornier—"

And so when the rest of Josei and Shohoku accompanied each other down by the Izu shrines—with Ayako at the other side of the district to enjoy excursion with girls—the two boys headed out for the stone house bordered by a Shinto temple. The foliage were in full bloom, and the sun thrived with no shades as the clouds diluted with a warm waft. It may be Yufune, or the ramen girl, or even the perpetrators of last night's theft, but Kogure and Mitsui could care less knowing that this person has nothing to gain. Kogure stood by the smooth stone walls at the entrance of the shrine while Mitsui hid behind the trees.

Both of them were not able to defend themselves, however, against this approaching figure before them—

* * *

_tbc. _


End file.
